7r 


MR.  DIMOCK 


EDITED    BY 
MRS.  DENIS  O'SULLIVAN 

HARRY  BUTTERS 
R.  F.  A. 

LIFE  AND  WAR  LETTERS 

OF 

A  CALIFORNIA  BOY 
kWHO  WAS  KILLED  FIGHTING 

ON  THE    SOMME 


MR.  DIMOCK 


BY 

MRS.  DENIS  O'SULLIVAN 


NEW  YORK:    JOHN    LANE    COMPANY 
LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

MCMXX 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK n 

II    LADY  FREKE 24 

III  The  NORTONS 37 

IV  DAPHNE 49 

V    THE  POND  HOUSE 67 

VI    HORACE'S  ARRIVAL 86 

VII    SERBIA  IN  OXFORDSHIRE 109 

VIII    "THE  ANGRY  GODS" 125 

IX    SIR  FRANCIS  MORRILL 134 

X    KATTY'S  DINNER 147 

XI    DAPHNE  AGAIN 154 

XII    CRYSTAL 162 

XIII  HORACE'S  LETTER 166 

XIV  THE  SISTERS 172 

XV    ALOST  AND  BRUXELLES 187 

XVT    THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN 196 

XVII    THE  NUN  IN  HARNESS 215 

XVIII    TEA  FOR  THE  VILLAGE 221 

XIX    RE-ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK 231 

21357538   ' 


6  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX  DAPHNE  AND  CRYSTAL 249 

XXI  THE  CLEARER  VISION       253 

XXII  "DANK  U  WEL,  ENGELAND!" 259 

XXIII  HOLLAND 264 

XXIV  SERBIA  IN  LOVE 284 

XXV  A  LONG  WAY 302 

XXVI  PRIMROSE  TIME 310 

XXVII  DEATH  AND  HAZLEBY  AND  ALICIA     .    .    .  326 

XXVIII  RE-ADJUSTMENT 336 

XXIX  EXIT  MR.  DIMOCK 351 


MR.   DIMOCK 


MR.  DIMOCK 

CHAPTER  I 

ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK 

WHEN  his  friends  in  New  York  and  Yonkers 
accused  Horace  Dimock  of  no  longer  loving  his  own 
country,  he  always  answered,  with  his  enchanting 
smile,  "Does  anybody  come  back  to  it  as  often  as  I 
do?  Twenty  times  in  twenty-two  years?" 

But  when  they  carried  it  farther  and  reproached 
him  for  his  devotion  to  England,  he  did  not  let  them 
know  that,  for  twenty  times  to  New  York,  he  had 
gone  thirty  to  London. 

What  is  it  that  calls  the  most  American-American 
back  to  London? 

Those  old  friends  of  Horace's,  the  Howard  girls, 
always  ascribed  it  to  a  supreme  egotism  latent  in  us 
all.  They  had  not  been  the  "Howard  girls," 
(Katharine,  the  elder,  was  fond  of  saying)  since  the 
last  century.  Katty  was  now  Lady  Freke,  and  had 
openly  thrown  in  her  lot  with  England,  announcing, 
with  her  air  of  deprecating  infallibility,  that  some- 
thing in  you  made  you  hang  about  the  scene  of  your 
ancestors'  crimes.  This  being  so,  how  many  crimes, 
or  how  many  American  ancestors,  London  must 
have  harboured ! 

It  must  harbour  many  even  now,  this  June  of 
1919. 

ii 


12        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Horace  Dimock  was  on  his  way  there.  It  would 
not  be  the  same  London,  of  even  two  years  before, 
when  he  had  last  seen  it ;  in  the  stress  of  war,  to  be 
sure,  but  astonishingly  exalted;  "carrying  on"  with 
a  spirit  that  the  Americans  themselves,  newly  enter- 
ing the  arena,  could  not  surpass.  But  since  then, 
Horace  had  heard,  hardship  and  suffering  had 
banished  the  exaltation.  Had  seven  months  of 
peace  restored  it  ?  Had  his  amazing  English  already 
returned  to  normal?  Was  the  war  already  a  half 
forgotten  nightmare  as  it  was  in  his  own  country? 
Above  all,  how  did  Americans  now  stand  in  that 
public  estimation  in  which  he  had  last  seen  them, 
angels  of  deliverance,  acclaimed  as  coming  out  of 
the  unknown  West,  to  rescue  civilisation? 

Horace  had  found  it  very  pleasant  in  1917  to  be 
acclaimed  as  a  sort  of  up-to-date-god,  and  "Bovo" 
(his  special  commodity)  the  food  of  gods. 

The  great  steadily  pulsing  liner  which  had  brought 
him  from  the  Argentine  was  nearing  Southampton. 
Not  usually  an  early  riser,  the  lovely  dawn  had 
called  him  on  deck  by  four  o'clock ;  and  as  the  vessel 
paced,  rather  than  steamed,  into  the  splendid  path- 
way of  the  Channel,  Horace  realised,  with  the  same 
thrill  his  first  entry  there  had  given  him,  how  many 
years  before!  that  France  the  wonderful,  France 
the  desired,  France  the  land  of  his  mother's  people, 
lay  close  on  his  right,  and  on  his  left  he  would  soon 
see  England. 

England  had  never  seemed  to  him  so  desirable  as 
France.  It  was  his  father's  country,  that  is,  the 


ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  13 

Dimocks  had  come  from  there,  and  Horace  had 
never  cared  much  for  his  father.  Still,  it  was 
always  to  England  he  returned  for  his  longer  visits, 
not  to  France.  Lady  Freke  said  once  that  many  an 
American  felt  an  abiding  affection  for  England,  as 
for  a  tranquil  wife,  while  only  flitting  impulses  drew 
him  to  France,  as  to  an  exigent  mistress. 

Katty  Freke  had  odious  moments  of  insight. 

Horace  turned  his  eyes  from  the  rosy  cloud  on 
the  right  that  meant  France,  to  the  luminous  vague- 
ness on  the  other  horizon  that  was  England.  Katty 
Freke  was  herself  behind  that  vagueness;  someway 
he  couldn't  picture  her  keen  inquisitive  face,  her 
monocle,  her  white  hair,  in  that  shifting  softness. 

How  easily,  on  the  contrary,  he  saw  her  sister 
Crystal's  gentle  eyes,  and  a  certain  serene  way 
Crystal  had  of  lifting  her  beautiful  head!  Beauti- 
ful Crystal  McClinton  was ;  Horace  reassured  him- 
self anew  as  to  his  own  discrimination,  for  it  was  to 
Crystal  he  was  returning.  He  had  not  seen  her  for 
two  years,  and  there  was  something  like  her  (Horace 
had  not  expected  to  feel  poetic  at  four  a.  m. )  in  the 
opalescent  grey  of  this  English  morning. 

Was  it  Crystal  indeed  who  drew  him  back  to 
England?  (Horace  did  not  permit  himself  to  re- 
member that  it  was  always  advantageous  to  his 
business  to  come  to  England. )  Or  was  it  the  recent 
demand  on  his  influence  to  keep  his  pretty  ward, 
Daphne  O'Brien,  out  of  a  convent?  Horace  liked 
the  picture  of  these  two  entrancing  creatures  reach- 
ing out  to  him  across  the  Atlantic.  He  had  re- 


14        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

sponded  at  some  inconvenience  to  himself  ...  it 
was  a  satisfaction  to  recall  (in  these  days  of  a  man's 
work,  revictualling  a  hungry  world),  his  prompt 
compliance.  One  does  not  desert  a  colossal  business 
like  his  (he  owned  the  great  "Bovo"  plant,  the  graz- 
ing for  tens  of  thousands  of  cattle,  and  the  means 
whereby  they  were  converted  into  human  nourish- 
ment. .  .  .  "Horace  puts  in  an  ox,"  Katty  Freke 
said,  "and  it  comes  out  a  little  brown  bottle")  .  .  . 
one  doesn't  desert  all  that  without  serious  incon- 
venience. 

He  heard  himself  telling  Crystal  how  serious  it 
was;  he  knew  she  would  say  tenderly,  "O  Horace! 
I  am  sorry."  And  he  knew  he  would  reassure  her 
with  the  gallantry  a  Dimock  always  offered  a  pretty 
woman,  even  when  she  was,  in  a  way,  his  own. 

Beside  .  .  .  Horace  was  honest  with  himself  .  .  . 
she  hadn't  asked  him  to  come. 

They  had  been  overwhelmingly  in  love  with  each 
other  four  years  'earlier  .  .  .  one  can  be  extra- 
ordinarily in  love  at  forty-two,  as  Horace  was 
then.  .  .  .  Crystal  had  been  only  thirty-six.  Her 
old  bore  of  a  husband,  Alexander  McClinton,  had 
been  dead  not  quite  a  year  when  this  happened,  and 
her  children  were  tiny.  (Horace  didn't  admit  to 
himself  how  he  loathed  children).  But  it  seemed  to 
him,  looking  back  on  this  episode,  in  a  life  of  epi- 
sodes, that  he  had  given  Crystal  more  than  he  had 
bestowed  on  any  other  woman. 

She  was  the  most  beautiful  of  his  many  loves. 
She  had,  above  all  the  women  he  had  known,  the 


ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  15 

art  of  making  a  man  comfortable.  Her  home, 
whether  it  was  in  London,  or  Yonkers,  or  Oxford- 
shire, always  offered  just  that  combination  of 
material  comfort  and  mental  ease  that  made  living 
pure  pleasure. 

She  was  not  so  amusing  as  her  sister  Katty,  she 
had  not  the  same  genius  for  acquiring  notabilities 
as  friends,  but  she  had  quite  as  much  tact,  and  above 
all,  she  had  beauty.  Beauty  of  the  calm  grey-eyed 
unhurried  type,  a  profile  that  was  almost  Greek, 
colour  like  a  girl's,  masses  of  brown  hair,  and  (of 
course)  a  generous  unquestioning  devotion  to  him, 
Horace. 

She  had  spent  the  winter  and  spring  in  California, 
and  was  perhaps  even  now  approaching  England. 
Her  steamer  might  be  just  before  or  just  behind  his 
own.  One  could  indeed  picture,  especially  before 
the  war,  a  procession  of  attractive  Americans  follow- 
ing or  preceding  anyone  so  appreciative  as  Horace 
knew  himself  to  be.  Horace  smiled  as  he  reflected 
that,  whatever  it  was,  Crystal's  boat  would  not  be, 
like  his,  a  converted  German  liner.  For  a  tolerant 
person  Crystal  presented  some  curious  little  rocks 
in  the  softly  flowing  stream  of  her  tolerance. 

She  had  never,  for  instance,  even  before  the  recent 
conflict,  liked  Germans.  She  had  never  sailed  on 
their  boats,  although  they  had  been  far  finer  than 
American  or  English  steamers — floating  palaces 
with  all  super  modern  conveniences;  Horace  liked 
them.  She  would  never  stay  in  the  most  attractive 
pension  in  Venice,  because  it  was  run  by  a  German. 
She  had  had,  and  unlike  most  people,  had  kept,  some 


i6        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

very  dear  German  friends;  but  for  the  race  as  a 
whole  she  had  had,  ever  since  he  had  known  her,  a 
strong,  quiet,  but  ineradicable  dislike.  Curious, 
that !  Other  people's  anti-German  prejudice  had  so 
often  been  acquired  after  1914. 

Horace  knew  himself  free  from  prejudice.  Be- 
sides, the  Argentine  was  full  of  Germans,  and  it 
would  hamper  the  business  if  he  failed  to  get  along 
with  them.  Anyway,  the  war  was  over. 

His  recollection  touched  a  moment  on  a  warning 
article  of  Peter  Norton's  in  a  recent  English  weekly. 
Norton  was  one  of  Lady  Freke's  closest  friends,  as 
he  was  also  the  great  editor  of  the  day.  What  luck 
Katty  had,  really,  in  the  people  she  knew!  But  if 
English  readers  shrugged  their  shoulders  over  an 
hypothetical  renewal  of  the  German  menace,  Ameri- 
cans certainly  never  credited  it  at  all.  Perhaps  nine 
per  cent  of  his  fellow  citizens  were  German  or  of 
German  extraction,  and  admirable  citizens  they 
were,  too. 

Now  if  it  were  a  question  of  the  Irish  .  .  „  ! 

Horace  did  not,  in  his  heart,  like  the  Irish,  al- 
though Tom  McCarthy,  Lady  Freke's  second  hus- 
band, had  been  his  best  friend.  And  it  was  in  Ire- 
land that  he  had  found  Crystal.  He  was  bound  in 
generosity  to  admit  that  he  owed  something  to  Ire- 
land. 

Mrs.  McClinton  had  gone  there  in  the  early  days 
of  her  widowhood,  with  the  tender  but  sometimes 
misplaced  emotion  of  women,  Horace  reflected. 
She  had  even  thought  it  a  duty  to  make  for  Sligo, 
where  her  Alexander  was  born.  Her  sister  Katty 


ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  17 

loved  the  South,  and  would  have  taken  her  to  the 
McCarthy  country  (poor  Tom  had  died  five  years 
before),  but  Crystal  felt  that  Nationalist  Cork  was 
indirectly  an  affront  to  the  lamented  McClinton 
of  Ulster,  so  they  compromised  on  Wicklow. 
There  they  spent,  as  Horace  vividly  remembered,  a 
wonderful  year. 

During  that  year  he  and  Blundell  Freke  were 
guests  at  a  bachelor  friend's  some  miles  away. 
What  more  natural  than  for  Horace  to  look  up  the 
"Howard  girls,"  to  take  Freke  and  their  host  to  call, 
and  to  drop  back  into  the  intimacy  of  their  school 
days  in  Yonkers?  To  fall  in  love  with  Crystal 
McClinton  seemed  the  most  natural  of  all.  Besides, 
he  had  always  thought  he  would  like  a  widow. 

And  Crystal,  in  that  marvellous  setting  of  the 
Wicklow  Glens!  Crystal's  noble  head  against  the 
Malure  River,  or  by  a  rowan  tree.  .  .  .  Crystal 
looking  from  the  thick-silled  window  spaces  of  the 
old  Drumgoff  barrack  ruins!  Crystal  in  white 
always,  those  tiresome  but  beautiful  children  also 
in  white;  Crystal  tall  and  grey-eyed  as  a  Titian 
Madonna  .  .  .  mourning  her  Alexander  perhaps, 
but  unobtrusively;  and  frankly  charmed  and  re- 
sponsive when  his  own  impetuous  wooing  began. 

Was  it  wonderful  that  he  had  drifted  into  the 
fullest  affection  of  his  life  that  summer  in  Glen- 
malure? 

Early  morning  and  solitude  and  a  white  leviathan 
of  comfort,  moving  you  smoothly  to  your  destina- 
tion, must  make  for  retrospect,  Horace  decided.  He 
had  loved  Crystal  for  four  years.  But  before 


i8        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Crystal,  how  many  women's  figures !  Leonora  first, 
Merton  Hazleby  White's  sister.  White  was  Katty's 
first  husband,  which  made  Horace's  earliest  love 
Katty's  sister-in-law  .  .  .  and  his  latest,  her  sister. 
.  .  .  Droll,  that! 

And  Daphne  was  Leonora's  child.  She  might, 
he  reflected  a  bit  ruefully,  have  been  his.  How  he 
would  hate  having  a  daughter  of  twenty-two !  That 
attractive  little  milliner  who  had  succeeded  Leonora 
in  his  affections  was  twenty-two. 

Well,  after  Leonora,  many  experiences.  Years 
of  hard  work  in  a  profession  he  did  not  like.  Many 
comings  and  goings.  He  told  himself  that  he  had 
never  forgotten  Leonora.  Perhaps  her  death  made 
that  image  the  fairer. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  gained  a  name  for  him- 
self. He  had  published,  at  his  own  expense,  a 
rather  mediocre  volume  of  poems.  And  finishing 
with  the  little  milliner,  and  many  little  milliners  or 
fond  pretty  creatures  like  her,  married  Alpha  John- 
son, daughter  and  heiress  of  old  "Jim  Town  John- 
son," of  the  first  Tonopah  gold  strike. 

Alpha  was  an  earnest  intelligent  girl,  not  bad 
looking,  well  educated,  according  to  her  own  lights ; 
according  to  good  old  Jim  Town's,  a  stupefying 
marvel  of  intellectual  attainment.  She  and  Horace 
met  on  some  social  service  committees,  and  he  was 
struck  by  the  way  she  put  through  really  great  re- 
forms amongst  the  poor.  He  never  allowed  himself 
to  remember  that  it  was  old  Jim  Town's  millions 
that  made  these  reforms  so  easy.  He  said,  and  be- 


ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  19 

lieved  it  (of  course  Alpha  believed  it),  that  his  own 
modest  success  rendered  the  Johnson  money,  that 
would  have  dazzled  him  earlier,  of  no  value  in  his 
eyes.  It  was  Alpha's  fine  mind  that  drew  him. 
And  Alpha  believed  him  again. 

Horace  sighed  a  long  breath  of  relief  as  he  looked 
toward  the  now  evident  English  coast.  How  in- 
tolerable his  ten  years  with  Alpha  had  been!  He 
had  enjoyed  the  luxury,  of  course,  the  affluence  of 
Johnson's  huge  fortune.  The  old  man  had  made 
them  live  with  him,  in  a  Chicago  mansion  so  magnifi- 
cent, "the  mint,"  Katty  Freke  had  said,  "could  not 
be  worse."  She  was  only  Katty  McCarthy  when 
she  had  visited  them  in  those  Chicago  days,  without 
a  penny,  but  disappointingly  unawed  by  the  ex- 
pensive glory  about  her. 

But  with  the  glory  was  the  boredom.  Some 
loyalty  to  himself,  if  not  to  Alpha,  kept  him  a  long 
time  in  the  role  of  model  husband.  Even  when  old 
Jim  Town  speculated  unwisely  and  a  huge  part  of  his 
money  disappeared,  with  it  the  Chicago  palace, 
Horace  maintained  an  almost  noble  demeanour. 
To  be  sure  there  was  still  enough,  even  when  the 
old  millionaire  died  suddenly,  and  left  confusion  in 
his  affairs.  Not  a  hopeless  confusion,  for  a  smaller 
palace,  near  New  York  (in  Montclair,  on  the  Jersey 
side),  and  a  remarkably  sufficient  income,  replaced 
the  old  magnificence. 

But  Alpha,  who  had  developed  some  obscure 
illness,  did  not  improve  in  the  new  atmosphere, 
physically  or  mentally. 

She  still  engaged  in  social  service  work,  and  was 


20        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

the  able  chairman  of  many  charities ;  there  had  been 
the  entertainment  of  society  successes.  .  .  .  Horace 
was  too  attractive  a  man  not  to  make  even  a  dull 
wife  an  asset.  And  Alpha  was  not  dull.  But  the 
years  had  not  brought  that  mellowness  one  expects 
from  a  good  mind,  ample  leisure  and  great  oppor- 
tunity. And  they  had  no  children  .  .  .  perhaps 
children  would  have  mellowed  her.  Their  absence 
gave  Alpha  an  unadmitted  sense  of  failure.  She 
had  never  been  pretty,  and  now  she  was  quite  plain. 
She  dressed  extremely  well,  and  Horace,  to  whom 
dress  was  important,  was  often  proud  of  her  appear-, 
ance.  But  she  nagged  a  little  .  .  .  fatal  tendency 
in  women!  despite  her  abject  admiration  for  her 
handsome  lord;  and  conversation,  which  they  had 
planned  in  honeymoon  days  to  keep  at  an  elevating 
level,  had  ceased  between  them  long  ago. 

How  remote  all  this — yet  how  bitterly  he  recalled 
it  all !  He  had  more  and  more  frequented  his  clubs. 
He  never  accepted  conventional  invitations  without 
his  wife,  but  he  more  and  more  gave  up  evenings 
and  week-ends  to  his  musical  and  painter  friends. 
Amongst  the  former  was  a  splendid  frank  young 
creature,  with  a  lovely  voice,  Patty  Oliver.  .  .  . 

The  affair  with  Patty  did  not  bear  recalling.  It 
was  the  most  serious  of  his  amatory  experiences 
during  Alpha's  life  with  him.  She  never  knew  the 
details,  but  various  suspicions  had  sent  her  to  a 
private  detective  agency,  and  she  learned  enough  to 
suffer  passionately. 

Strangely  enough  it  was  quite  a  minor  and  brief 
affair,  almost  under  her  nose  (her  own  dress- 


ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  21 

maker's  assistant)  that  led  Alpha  to  extreme  meas- 
ures. She  would  divorce  Horace  to  let  him  find 
his  happiness  in  his  own  way,  and  to  this  end  in- 
terviewed the  little  assistant,  who  was,  unfortunate- 
ly, dazzlingly  pretty  .  .  .  decided  that  Horace's 
future  lay  there,  wrote  him  wildly  that  he  would 
never  be  loved  as  she  had  loved  him,  and  betook 
herself  to  her  father's  old  holdings  in  Nevada, 
whence  she  easily  proved — as  Horace  was,  naturally, 
not  with  her — desertion  on  his  part  as  sufficient 
grounds  for  respectable  divorce.  The  efficiency 
Horace  had  admired  in  courtship  times  had  a  final 
opportunity.  She  carried  through  the  sale  of  the 
Montclair  property,  settled  up  her  father's  com- 
plicated estate,  concluded  a  fair  arrangement  as 
to  Bovo,  made  a  firm  will  leaving  all  her  money 
to  Horace,  and  retired  to  a  private  hospital  for  an 
operation.  This  was  in  1912.  She  lived  till  1915, 
three  years  after  the  divorce,  when  her  malady  killed 
her.  Lady  Freke  said  she  died  of  a  broken  heart 
and  kidney  complaint. 

Katty  Freke  certainly  had  an  acidulated  facility 
of  expression. 

Evoking  Katty's  acidity  brought  him  back  to 
those  lovely  days  at  Glenmalure.  If  it  was  easy 
for  him  to  fall  a  victim  to  Crystal's  charm,  how 
much  easier  for  inexperienced  Sir  Blundell  Freke, 
stodgy  Member  of  Parliament,  large,  shy  and  fifty, 
to  find  Katty  McCarthy  (as  she  was  then)  irre- 
sistible. Her  two  boys,  children  of  her  first  mar- 
riage, had  seemed  to  Sir  Blundell,  in  their  gay  Amer- 


22        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

ican  poise  and  freedom,  almost  as  attractive  as  the 
lively  parent.  They  in  turn  "took  to"  their  mother's 
big  friend,  who  tipped  so  munificently  and  shot  so 
straight,  with  enthusiasm.  Marrying  him  was  al- 
most too  easy,  the  vivacious  widow  confided  to 
Horace.  But  if  she  missed  the  sprightliness  of 
her  second  husband,  the  little  Irishman,  or  the  sim- 
pler adoration  of  her  first,  the  serious  American, 
she  must,  Horace  said  to  himself,  have  deeply  en- 
joyed the  title  and  prosperity  of  the  Englishman. 

Her  boys  had  gone,  after  the  thorough  training 
of  their  English  public  school,  to  an  American  Uni- 
versity. Then  the  war.  .  .  .  They  must  now  be 
.  .  .  Horace  counted  up  ...  Merton,  twenty- 
three,  Hazleby,  twenty-one.  Horace  hoped  they 
were  still  in  America. 

Thinking  of  Katty's  boys  brought  him  back  to 
their  cousin  Daphne.  Her  letter  to  "Uncle  Hor- 
ace," her  guardian,  announcing  her  unalterable  in- 
tention of  embracing  the  religious  life,  had  been 
followed  by  a  cablegram  from  Lady  Freke: 

"Only  your  direct  influence  likely  prevent 
Daphne's  entering  convent." 

It  was  evident  that  neither  Katty  nor  Crystal  had 
known  in  time  to  apprise  him  of  his  ward's  aspira- 
tion. In  any  case,  Katty  Freke  never  wrote  when 
she  could  telegraph. 

A  sailing  next  day  from  Buenos  Aires  made  Hor- 
ace's immediate  departure  possible,  if  inconvenient. 
He  had  meant,  before  this,  to  go  to  England  a  little 
later  in  the  season,  when  material  affairs  as  well 
as  emotional  ones  would  call  him.  Besides,  Eng- 


ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  23 

land  would  not  be  too  comfortable  in  early  1919, 
and  Horace  liked  his  comfort.  Crystal  had  taken 
a  house  in  Oxfordshire,  and  planned  to  have  it 
ready  by  August,  when  it  would  have  better  suited 
Horace's  convenience. 

Crystal,  while  not  a  fussy  hostess,  was  a  crea- 
ture of  definite  arrangements.  The  new  little  house, 
which  she  had  taken  through  a  trusted  friend,  with- 
out seeing,  was  miles  from  anywhere.  Furnishing 
it  would  mean  time  and  thought ;  furnishing  it  espe- 
cially for  him,  as  chief  of  the  expected  guests,  would 
be  an  important  matter. 

Horace  looked  complacently  toward  the  English 
coast  that  sheltered  Crystal's  unknown  little  house, 
if  indeed  it  did  not  already  shelter  Crystal.  It 
was  worth  coming  from  the  other  side  of  the  round 
globe  for  a  man  to  be  as  sure  as  he  was  of  the 
charm,  the  comfort,  of  a  waiting  home.  There 
would  be  other  guests.  Crystal  observed  the  con- 
ventions just  enough.  Inconvenient?  Perhaps. 

But  it  was  for  him  it  would  all  be  waiting. 


CHAPTER  II, 

LADY    FREKE 

HORACE  had  the  usual  satisfaction  in  landing  at 
an  English  port.  He  had  expected  a  survival  of 
war  conditions,  but  there  was  little  to  bother  one 
.  .  .  easy  custom  requirements,  courteous  officials, 
a  prompt  departure.  The  familiar  Hampshire  land- 
scape was  like  a  fresh  green  garden  after  the  long 
days  at  sea.  He  was  disposed  to  like  even  the  bad 
breakfast  one  gets  on  an  English  train  .  .  .  pleased 
and  grateful  to  get  breakfast  at  all.  Were  there 
evidences  of  the  war  about?  Horace  did  not  look 
for  them. 

Katty  Freke  had  always  said,  "Thank  God  for 
three  things  in  England — kippers,  politics  and  serv- 
ants!" 

So  Horace,  with  the  Times  unfolded  at  a  well-in- 
formed leading  article,  with  a  broiled  bloater  before 
him,  and  an  attentive  waiter  behind,  felt  anew  the 
sense  of  comfort  this  old  country  invariably  gave 
him,  knowing  meanwhile  what  a  radiantly  attractive 
London  lay  just  ahead. 

It  was  as  radiant  as  he  hoped.  Absurd  to  talk 
of  the  lingering  discomfort  and  sordidness  of  the 

24 


LADY  FREKE  25 

war,  thought  our  traveller,  closing  his  eyes  to  all 
that  he  did  not  wish  to  see.  The  taxi  sped  deftly 
out  of  the  congestion  around  Waterloo  Station,  into 
the  June  warmth  of  quieter  streets.  Then  across 
the  river,  past  Westminster,  where  Mr.  Dimock  in- 
clined, as  twenty  times  before,  to  salute  those  his- 
toric buildings.  The  American  with  English  blood 
in  his  veins  certainly  feels  that  he  has  "come 
home"  when  he  reaches  that  splendid  centre  of  the 
world. 

This  particular  American  tried  not  to  grin  fatu- 
ously, looking  back  at  Parliament  Square  as  they 
turned  toward  a  bit  of  grey  blocked  street  that  led 
into  St.  James's  Park.  Gorgeous!  What  a  world 
to  come  back  to!  He  revelled  in  the  greenness  as 
they  slowed  down  to  regulation  Park  speed,  in  the 
June  morning,  in  the  eternal  haze  of  London,  which 
gives  to  the  meanest  and  ugliest  building  a  dream- 
like greyness.  And  to  be  in  the  heart  of  the  big- 
gest city  in  the  world,  with  its  many-century-old 
houses  so  near  him,  yet  to  be  as  alone  as  if  he  were 
deep  in  country  silence! 

These  miles  of  park  in  the  midst  of  endless 
houses  .  .  .  what  an  anomaly!  And  all  his  ... 
this  beauty,  this  tradition,  the  glory  of  a  thousand 
years.  Horace  felt  more  than  ever  that  his  absence 
in  America,  the  absence  of  his  family,  that  is,  for 
a  bare  three  hundred  years,  meant  nothing.  He 
had  as  much  right  to  come  back  to  it  as  any  Eng- 
lishman of  them  all. 

The  casual  recollection  of  his  enthusiasm  that 
very  morning  for  France  chilled  him  a  bit.  Hor- 


26        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

ace  was  honest  with  himself.  He  admitted  with 
a  fine  frankness  that  perhaps  he  was  not  the  most 
constant  of  mortals.  Of  course  another  way  of 
putting  it  was  to  say  that  keen  appreciation  of 
beauty  necessarily  made  for  a  certain  inconstancy, 
.  .  .  Leonora,  Alpha,  Patty  Oliver,  Crystal,  and 
various  minor  charmers  flitted  through  his  mind. 
Then  he  recalled,  with  a  warm  glow  of  virtue,  his 
four  years  of  absolutely  untouched  loyalty  to 
Crystal. 

Who  could  call  him  inconstant  after  that? 

They  came  out  opposite  Apsley  House,  where  the 
rather  insignificant  statue  of  the  most  significant  of 
British  warriors  faces  his  former  dwelling.  The 
walled-in  windows  on  the  Hyde  Park  side  recall 
the  ugly  moment  when  the  crowd  turned  on  that 
conqueror  of  a  greater  conqueror.  Horace's  sympa- 
thies went  with  Napoleon,  not  Wellington.  He 
rather  liked  those  walled-in  windows.  Only  Hor- 
ace, perhaps,  would  have  remembered,  in  that 
moment,  the  war  of  early  1800,  and  closed  his  eyes 
on  that  of  early  1900. 

Then  into  Knightsbridge  and  so  to  his  excellent 
hotel,  where  a  room  overlooking  trees  and  green 
spaces  was  reserved  for  him  each  year. 

A  telegram  awaited  him  from  Crystal : 

"Arrived  Thursday.  Pond  House  enchanting.  Wire 
before  coming." 

That  meant  she  was  making  ready  for  him,  the 
darling !  Well,  he'd  give  her  two  days  more.  Hav- 
ing telephoned  his  telegram  in  answer  to  hers,  his 


LADY  FREKE  27 

next  thought  was  of  her  sister.  He  rang  up  Lady 
Freke. 

"Yes,  Lady  Freke  was  at  home.  She  knew  his 
steamer  had  arrived  that  morning.  Would  he  come 
over  to  luncheon?  She  would  be  alone." 

"  'Here  is  Ancona.  Yonder  is  the  Sea' " 

burbled  Horace  through  the  telephone.  "My  dear 
girl,  one  always  quotes  when  one  arrives  in  Eng- 
land." 

"Here's  Hyde  Park  Corner,  there  Cadogan 
Square !" 

(Like  all  Americans,  Horace  was  pleased  with 
himself  for  saying  Caduggan  correctly.)  "I'll  be 
around  in  five  minutes." 

Lady  Freke's  house — why  did  not  one  say  Sir 
Blundell  Freke's?  Horace  pondered — was  one  of 
a  row  of  low-stepped  ugly  dwellings,  the  very  ex- 
pression of  red-brick  affluence,  looking  neatly  at  the 
railed-in  Square.  But  this  was  the  outside.  The 
elephantine  butler,  much  too  big  for  the  tiny  en- 
trance, greeted  the  caller  affably.  Lady  Freke  had 
only  men  servants — except  for  her  own  maid.  In- 
side, the  familiar  blue  grey  walls  with  the  dashing 
blue  of  a  row  of  Hiroshigi  prints  behind  Grim- 
mer's  correct  head,  gave  Horace  the  usually  delight- 
ful sense  of  the  incongruous  that  marked  every- 
thing pertaining  to  Katty  Freke.  The  polished 
stairs  that  led  up  to  the  drawing  room,  the  Unknown 
Woman  who  looked  at  him  inscrutably  as  he  passed 
her  mellow  tinted  beauty  set  in  the  deep  blues  of 
the  landing,  all  pleased  him.  Not  less  the  sudden 
bloom  of  light  and  colour  as  Grimmer  opened  the 


28        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

drawing  room  door  for  him.  Masses  of  Katty's 
favourite  blush  roses  in  blue  jars;  the  blue  grey 
walls,  the  blue  and  gold  and  grey  of  well  chosen 
furnishings,  with  the  warmer  note  of  old  rose  and 
grey  rugs ;  and  over  the  high  fine  mantel  a  radiant 
portrait  of  Crystal,  making  the  central  point  of 
the  room — Crystal  in  white,  against  the  sunshine, 
her  arms  filled  with  pink  roses. 

Horace  smiled  in  pleasure.  The  long  low-ceil- 
inged  room  ended  in  French  windows  which  looked 
over  the  green  Square.  There  was  not  too  much  in 
the  room,  but  he  knew  by  experience  that  every 
chair  was  comfortable,  that  for  every  seat  was  a 
second  near  enough  to  make  talk  easy;  that  the 
books  you  wanted  always  seemed  at  hand;  that  the 
light  from  the  long  windows,  or  from  the  lamps  at 
night,  fell  exactly  right  when  you  took  up  your 
book.  The  Howard  girls  had  always  been  famous 
for  making  a  "comfy"  home.  This  was  more,  it 
was  rich  and  glowing  as  a  jewel.  It  was  also  just 
the  right  setting  for  Lady  Freke's  trim  figure  in 
the  pale  grey  she  affected  when  she  appeared  joy- 
fully to  greet  him. 

"You  were  a  good  boy  to  come  so  promptly!" 
giving  him  a  hand  as  smooth  and  creamy  white  as 
her  face.  "But  none  too  promptly.  Daphne  is  not 
yet  behind  the  bars,  but  she's  in  the  dock,  and  a 
lovely  prisoner  she'll  make  too  if  they  get  her." 

"Is  she  half  as  lovely  as  her  aunt  this  minute?" 
smiled  Horace. 

Katty  screwed  her  monocle  into  her  eye  as  she 
stood  on  tiptoe  to  look  into  a  mirror. 


LADY  FREKE  29 

"There  was  a  sign  in  a  second-hand  shop  down 
the  road,"  she  said,  "on  a  rather  good  old  chair. 
'Would  pay  to  do  over' — Well,  I'm  done  over  .  .  . 
nice  of  you  to  say  it  paid." 

"Who  did  you,  and  what  did  she  do?" 

"Only  my  maid.  It's  this  black  rosette  in  the 
upholstery"  (pointing  to  her  white  hair),  "and  we 
do  the  hair  a  la  Mme.  Maintenon  now,  naughty — 
naughty,  but  attractive." 

"Very,"  conceded  Horace.  "Now  tell  me  about 
Daphne." 

They  settled  themselves  amongst  the  blue  cush- 
ions of  the  Chesterfield,  Horace  regarding  his  com- 
panion with  an  admiring  scrutiny.  Was  it  possible 
she  was  nearer  fifty  than  forty  ?  She  was  not  beau- 
tiful like  Crystal,  but  she  was  so  trim,  so  "smart" 
in  the  English  sense,  so  confident — her  white  hair 
made  her  pale  face  so  youthful;  her  monocle  and 
the  black  velvet  touch  on  the  white  hair  were  so 
wicked ;  the  grey  shod  feet  under  her  rustling  skirts 
so  tiny — that  Horace  said  sincerely,  looking  his  old 
friend  up  and  down, 

"Katty,  you're  a  wonder!" 

"I'm  well  preserved,  if  you  mean  that.  But  wait 
until  you  see  Crystal.  She's  more  than  ever  like 
the  'rosy  Aurora'  that  was  our  despair  when  we 
struggled  with  Virgil.  She  is  a  wonder  if  you  like 
— but  of  course  she's  six  years  younger  than  you 
or  I,  Horace." 

She  was  studying  her  guest  curiously.  Horace 
knew  she  hac  never  satisfied  herself  as  to  his  exact 
standing  with  Crystal. 


30        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"If  I  looked  no  older  than  you — But  now — 
Daphne.  What  am  I  to  do  about  the  child?" 

"Child!  She'll  make  you  think  she's  the  mother 
of  the  world.  Be  prepared  to  feel  like  a  very  small, 
very  naughty  boy  when  you  go  to  see  Daphne." 

"But  may  I  go?  Just  how  far  has  she  progressed 
in  her  convent  path?" 

"I'm  to  take  you  there  day  after  tomorrow,"  his 
hostess  answered.  "You  might  meet  me  in  the 
chapel  at  nine.  You  could  be  saying  your  prayers 
there  till  I  come.  I'm  sure  you  need  to." 

"More  than  you  think.  But  first  I  must  know 
something  of  Daphne's  mental  attitude,"  Horace  put 
it  tolerantly. 

"Its  altitude,  not  attitude.  She's  in  the  clouds, 
you'll  see.  But  she  is  only  a  postulant  so  far,  she 
isn't  even  a  novice.  ...  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  When 
I  cabled,  I  was  at  my  wits'  end.  I  couldn't  see  Mer- 
ton's  niece  in  the  cloistered  life.  She's  too  prac- 
tical, like  him,  too  necessary  outside.  I  can't  tell 
you  what  executive  ability  she  developed  during 
the  war,  not  to  mention  her  charm." 

"Then  she  has  charm?  Whose?"  asked  Horace, 
thinking  of  Leonora. 

"Not  Leonora's,"  Katty  seemed  to  have  read  his 
thought.  "Leonora  was  the  Dresden  shepherdess 
type."  (Katty  ought  to  know;  after  all,  Leonora 
was  her  own  sister-in-law.)  "Daphne  is  Diana,  a 
virgin  goddess.  An  up-to-date  Diana,  I  admit,  with 
an  obsession  for  Rome." 

"What  an  extraordinary  mixture!"  Horace  rose 
a  little  restlessly. 


LADY  FREKE  31 

"A  mixture,  yes,  but  charm !  Full  of  it.  We've 
all  gone  down  before  her  like  nine  pins.  It's  some- 
thing tangible,  like  her  lovely  brows,  or  her  curious 
crisp  voice." 

Horace  put  the  Dresden  shepherdess  behind  him. 
"But  Diana?  That  would  suggest  that  the  celibate 
life  was  O.K." 

"Another  mix-up.  Daphne  is  a  born  mother.  Of 
course  she'll  end  by  mothering  her  nuns.  But  what 
wouldn't  I  give  to  see  her  mothering  some  hand- 
some boy,  a  lover,  I  mean?  And  later  his  babies." 

"You're  incorrigible,  Katty.  How  about  your 
own  boys?"  asked  Horace. 

"I  should  say  to  myself,  'Go  on  your  knees  and 
give  thanks  to  God,  Katty  Freke!'  if  one  of  them 
was  lucky  enough  to  get  her.  But  they're  still  in 
Mesapotamia,  bad  luck!  with  Blundell,  which  is 
good  luck.  I  wish  you  were  younger,  Horace.  I'd 
make  you  kidnap  her  as  she  comes  from  communion 
tomorrow." 

"It's  easy  to  see  your  ladyship  knows  little  of 
the  true  faith,  even  less  than  I  do.  She'll  be  in 
a  state  of  grace,  and  Apollo  himself  wouldn't  have 
a  look  in." 

"I've  a  mind  to  take  Stefan  there,"  said  Lady 
Freke  absently.  "Only  she's  too  lovely  just  now, 
and  I'd  not  have  the  right  to  risk  the  boy's  peace  of 
mind." 

"Stefan  is  ...  ?"  Horace  hazarded. 

"Stefan  Dakovich.  You  really  spell  it  Dakovic 
and  pronounce  it  Darkovitch.  The  most  beautiful 
boy  I  know,  Merton  and  Hazleby  being  unfinished 


32        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

aborigines  beside  him.  He's  the  product  of  such  a 
fine  old  civilisation!  The  real  thing  .  .  .  and 
Serb.  But  Serbia  is  as  forgotten  as  the  war." 
Katty's  voice  took  on  an  unusual  bitterness.  Hor- 
ace wondered ;  what  had  Serbia  to  do  with  it  ? 

"But  Daphne" — Katty  went  on — "that  lovely, 
keen,  intelligent  creature  immured  in  the  fusty  tra- 
ditions of  the  1 6th  century!  I  can't  bear  it.  You 
must  do  what  you  can,  Horace  Dimock.  She  re- 
spects your  opinion.  And  you're  Catholic  born. 
You've  a  right  to  an  opinion.  Crystal  and  I,  poor 
pagans,  are  not  worth  counting,  spiritually." 

Horace  studied  his  old  friend,  who  was  so  peren- 
nially a  new  friend,  almost  affectionately.  "You 
and  Crystal  may  not  count  in  that  cloister  where 
little  Daphne  is,  but  you're  the  two  best  women  I 
ever  knew!" 

"And  'tis  yourself  has  known  a  few,"  said  his 
hostess  wickedly,  slipping  off  the  couch  where  she'd 
been  curled  like  an  eighteen-year-old.  "But  here's 
Grimmer.  Let's  go  down  to  luncheon." 

"You  may  descend  to  American  slang,  Katty,  or 
play  you're  Irish  now  and  then,  but  you  still  say 
luncheon,  not  lunch." 

"Thanks  be!"  replied  Lady  Freke,  as  they  went 
down  together.  "There  are  some  depths  I  won't 
descend  to.  Lunch  is  one — pants  for  trousers  is 
another,  postal  for  post  card,  photo  for  photograph, 
phone  for  telephone — they're  all  vile." 

When  they  faced  each  other,  not  at  the  big  table, 
but  at  a  tiny  one  in  the  window,  with  Grimmer 
and  a  shy  first  footman  like  presiding  genii  of  Brit- 


LADY  FREKE  33 

ish  extraction,  Katty  asked  how  much  of  his  time 
he  meant  to  bestow  upon  her? 

"I  shall  be  busy  for  a  few  days  in  the  city,"' 
answered  Horace.  "But  will  you  dine  with  me  and 
do  a  theatre  this  evening?" 

"No,  I  am  dining  with  the  Peter  Nortons,  and 
you  must  come  along.  Meredith  Dyfed  will  be 
there.  He's  just  back  from  the  Balkans.  Grim- 
mer, please  telephone  Mrs.  Norton  at  once,  and 
leave  word  that  I  am  bringing  Mr.  Dimock  to- 
night." 

"If  you  and  Norton  are  going  to  argue  on  Home 
Rule  it'll  be  no  place  for  me,"  said  Horace  firmly. 

"You've  been  lost  in  the  jungle,  Horace.  Home 
Rule!  an  antiquated  name.  We  ]\ad  Home  Rule. 
It  came  into  existence  automatically  in  May,  1914, 
as  you  know.  Then  the  war  killed  it,  the  war  and 
Sinn  Fein."  Katty  bit  into  the  roll  viciously.  "We 
played  the  game,  we  Home  Rulers.  Sinn  Fein 
didn't;  and  doesn't." 

"What  does  Norton  say?"  asked  Horace. 

"He's  playing  the  game  too.  After  all  these  years 
of  fighting  us,  and  he  Irish  ...  he  says  now,  quite 
simply,  like  a  good  loser,  'The  time's  come  when 
all  Irishmen,  Unionist  and  Nationalist,  must  put 
their  shoulders  to  the  wheel/  ' 

"But  will  they?" 

Katty  clouded  a  moment.  "There  are  extremists 
in  all  countries.  And  the  Irish  extremist  is  always 
a  knave  or  a  fool.  He'll  put  his  own  neck  in  the 
noose,  or  someone  else's.  There'll  be  knaves  North, 


34        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

and  fools  South,  you'll  see.  And  the  fools  are  now 
in  the  majority." 

"You  have  lost  John  Redmond  since  I  was  here," 
said  Horace,  remembering  Katty's  veneration  for 
the  great  Home  Ruler. 

Real  tears  came  into  Lady  Freke's  eyes.  It  was 
the  first  time  her  friend  had  ever  seen  them  there. 
"I  can't  talk  of  that,"  she  said. 

Horace  waited  a  moment,  and  then  said  com- 
fortably, "Do  they  still  accept  you  without  ques- 
tion, the  Irish,  I  mean — with  your  American  birth, 
your  English  name?  How  do  you  take  them  in?" 

Katty  smiled  good  humouredly;  "I  used  to  say 
I  was  Irish  by  marriage — when  poor  Tom  was 
here — but  now  I  know  'tis  by  conviction.  'More 
Irish  than  the  Irish' — never  was  there  a  truer 
word." 

"Mrs.  Norton's  love,  your  ladyship,"  said  Grim- 
mer, re-entering  benignantly,  "and  will  be  very 
pleased  to  see  Mr.  Dimock." 

"Thank  you,  Grimmer.  There's  this  day  filled, 
Horace.  Tomorrow  I'm  full  up!  But  day  after 
tomorrow  you'll  meet  me  at  nine  to  see  our  little 
postulant?  And  when  do  you  go  down  to  Oxford- 
shire?" 

"Crystal  doesn't  wish  me  to  come  yet."  Horace 
tried  to  say  it  lightly.  "I  thought  I'd  do  some  nec- 
essary business  here,  and  go  down  Tuesday." 

"I'm  going  down  Wednesday  on  the  four  ten. 
Will  you  come  along?"  (Again  Katty's  wicked  lit- 
tle side  glance.) 

"That  would  be  delightful,"  said  Horace,  hoping 


LADY  FREKE  35 

he  concealed  his  dismay.    Not  to  meet  Crystal  alone 
after  this  long  absence!    However,  he  rather  osten- 
tatiously made  a  note  of  the  time  in  his  little  book : 
"Paddington,  four  ten,  Wednesday." 

Their  talk  was  mostly  gossip  after  this.  Grim- 
mer and  the  shy  footman  put  the  coffee  on  the 
table  and  withdrew.  Horace,  lighting  his  ciga- 
rette at  the  match  Katty  held  for  him,  said  con- 
tentedly, 

"A  rattling  good  little  luncheon,  my  dear  girl. 
You  and  Crystal  are  born  hostesses." 

"It's  the  easiest,  because  it's  the  most  amusing  role 
on  any  stage,"  answered  Lady  Freke.  "And  in 
England  'tis  so  easy  to  be  a  good  hostess!  When 
I  remember  what  it  used  to  mean  at  home,  in  New 
York  or  Yonkers!" 

"You  always  seemed  to  do  it  easily  at  home," 
reflected  Horace. 

"You  never  knew  the  anguish  behind  that  ease! 
The  incompetent  servants,  the  cost  of  everything! 
And  a  certain  deadly  conformity  required  of  you 
in  returning  dinners,  in  having  the  same  things 
Mrs.  Brown  or  Mrs.  White  had,  only  better.  No, 
there  was  fun  in  it,  of  course,  but  you  were  so 
hampered.  Yet  no  American  will  believe  you  can 
be  a  thousand  times  less  conventional  in  England, 
less  restricted,  even  now,  than " 

"Than  in  the  land  of  the   free?" 

"The  land  of  the  unfree.  London  is  the  only 
place  in  the  world  where  you  can  do  exactly  a& 
you  like — your  only  true  democracy." 


36        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"It's  part  of  your  incongruity,  my  dear,  to  be 
an  American,  an  Irish  irreconcilable,  and  yet  a  loyal 
Britisher." 

"Only  I'm  not  a  Britisher,"  protested  Katty — 
"hateful  name !  I'm  a  Londoner.  Don't  you  know 
how  Calif ornians  always  answer  when  you  ask 
their  nationality?  'I'm  Californian.'  The  rest  of 
us  say  'I'm  American.'  Well,  so  am  I  a  Londoner 
— a  London  Fenian,  made  in  Yonkers,  U.  S.  A." 

"And  I'm  a  dawdler,"  said  Horace,  rising.  "Pre- 
tending I'm  a  business  man.  Let  me  go  back  to 
my  swine,  Circe." 

"I  thought  it  was  beef,  not  pork." 

"It's  fat  enough  just  now  to  be  pork." 

"You  mean  it's  paying,  your  Bovo,  even  now, 
after  the  war?" 

"A  home  paper  I  got  this  morning  said  'Pork  is 
up  some' — but  I  assure  you  Bovo  is  up  some  and 
then  some.  We're  a  great  people — the  liberties  we 
take  with  the  English  language!" 

"Sure,  we've  the  right  to,"  said  his  hostess,  fol- 
lowing as  he  turned  resolutely  to  go.  "Au  revoir, 
mon  enfant — I'll  see  you  tonight  at  the  Mortons. 
And  be  at  your  prayers  on  time  Monday!" 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   NORTONS 

HORACE  stood  that  evening  in  the  shadow  at  the 
end  of  the  Mortons'  long  garden.  It  was  after  eight, 
but  warm  afternoon  still  lingered  on  the  grey-brown 
houses,  over  the  rose  bushes,  and  on  Aileen's  white 
figure,  as  she  appeared  opposite,  on  the  iron  bal- 
cony leading  from  the  drawing  room.  Another 
figure  descended  the  steps,  looking  back  as  though 
for  instructions.  Even  at  that  distance,  Horace 
could  see  how  tall,  how  lightly  held  and  slim  a  figure 
it  was ;  no  Englishman  would  walk  like  that.  Who 
was  Aileen's  young  friend  ?  Horace  twinkled  a  bit, 
recalling  the  variety  and  number  of  Aileen's  swains. 

But  as  this  one  came  slowly  toward  him  down 
the  long,  straight  gravelled  path  common  to  Lon- 
don back  gardens,  Horace  was  struck  by  a  definite 
unlikeness  to  any  type  he  knew.  An  American  boy 
would  have  come  at  a  rush;  an  English  one  with 
some  consciousness;  a  German  stiffly.  Was  this 
boy  a  Frenchman?  No;  too  beautiful,  Horace  de- 
cided, even  from  there.  Italian?  An  Italian  might 
have  those  fine  cut  lines ;  and  the  boy's  brown  flushed 
skin,  something  lofty  in  the  carriage  of  the  head, 
might  have  been  a  young  aristocrat's  in  ancient 

37 


38        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Rome.  Still,  the  watcher  was  sure  he  was  not 
Italian. 

Horace  had  your  real  American's  enthusiasm  for 
his  own  sex,  and  the  minor  poet's  appreciation  of 
beauty.  He  moved  forward  now  with  genuine 
pleasure  to  get  Aileen's  message.  The  stranger 
stopped  short,  almost  as  though  he  were  about 
to  salute  Dimock,  and  said  carefully,  with  hardly 
any  accent,  but  evidently  choosing  every  word, 

"Madam  Norton  says  I  must  call  you.  Dinner 
is  there." 

Horace,  who  was  not  short,  had  to  look  up  as  he 
smiled  his  answer.  The  boy  smiled  back,  but  with 
no  flash  of  white  teeth  like  an  Italian's;  rather 
with  a  gravity  beyond  his  years. 

"You're  an  old  friend  too,  in  this  delightful 
house?"  queried  Horace,  as  they  walked  L,ide  by 
side  up  the  path. 

"No,  it  is  my  first  time.  My  friend,  Captain 
Boyovich,  he  brings  me  here.  But  I  often  visit  the 
friend  of  Madam  Norton,  the  Lady  Freke,  who  is 
also  the  friend  of  Boyovich." 

"Ah,  then  you  are — you  are  from  the  Balkans?" 
(Horace  shared  his  countrymen's  profound  igno- 
rance of  southeastern  Europe.) 

"Serbia,"  said  the  young  man  with  the  same  un- 
youthful  seriousness. 

Horace  recoiled  a  little.  If  Katty  Freke  had  been 
"up  against"  this  proposition,  she  would  have  said, 
"Bless  my  soul,  you  don't  look  it!"  and  Horace 
wished  for  her  lightness  of  touch  in  a  difficult 
moment.  This  boy  a  Serbian?  One  of  a  nation 


THE  NORTONS  39 

given  to  murder  in  high  places;  one  of  that  wild 
unknown  country  commonly  put  down  as  semi-Rus- 
sian, semi-German? 

"We  know  so  little  in  England  and  over  in  New 
York,"  he  said  awkwardly,  "about  those  countries, 
and  I  have  been  in  South  America  during  the  war. 
.What  part  of  Serbia  do  you  come  from?" 

"Belgrade.  But  I  am  Montenegrin — my  name  is 
Dakovich."  Again  the  movement  toward  a  salute. 

"Mine  is  Dimock,"  and  Horace  held  out  his  hand 
with  the  cordiality  that  always  won  him  friends. 

Lake  Freke's  voice  assailed  them  from  the  bal- 
cony. 

"Did  he  say  'Pleased  to  meet  you,'  Stefan?  All 
Americans  say  that  till  they  know  better." 

Dakovich  took  the  low  steps  three  at  a  time  to 
kiss  her  hand.  She  left  it  in  his  with  a  frank  af- 
fection surprising  in  Katharine  Freke.  "If  you 
had  learned  to  kiss  hands  as  these  Serbian  officers 
do,  you'd  be  irresistible,  Horace,"  she  said.  "There 
is  a  directness  about  it  I  find  adorable." 

Dakovich  kissed  her  hand  again — smiling  down 
on  her,  but  not  speaking. 

"Lady  Freke  would  never  find  anything  /  did 
adorable,"  chaffed  Horace,  as  the  three  went  in  to- 
gether. 

Aileen  came  forward  with  another  stranger.  "It's 
Boyovich,"  she  said.  "You  don't  know  a  thing 
about  him,  Horace,  and  he  speaks  no  English,  so 
you  never  will.  But  he's  a  lamb." 

"He's  more  than  that,"  came  Meredith  Dyfed's 


40        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

voice.  "He's  a  guslar*  an  hereditary  bard  "  Cap- 
tain Boyovich  bowed  and  smiled,  shaking  hands 
with  Horace.  He  had  none  of  the  younger  Ser- 
bian's silent,  rather  bitter  beauty — he  was  shorter, 
older,  very  alert,  with  blue  eyes  like  a  child,  and 
the  spontaneity  of  an  unconscious  child.  Horace, 
looking  from  one  to  the  other  (he  had  already  seen 
Mr.  Meredith  Dyfed)  was  curiously  aware  of  a 
new  order  of  personality,  almost  a  new  race,  with 
a  charm  and  finish  that  surprised  him.  Were  these 
boys  of  that  class  of  young  officers  who  had  wan- 
tonly murdered  Alexander  and  Draga  so  long  ago? 
Or  were  they  of  the  desperate  band  struggling 
through  the  Albanian  snows  in  that  retreat  that, 
even  from  South  America,  had  seemed  stupendous? 
But  they  appeared  so  gentle,  these  two,  with  the 
softness  of  over-civilisation.  He  had  understood 
that  the  Serbs  loved  fighting  above  all  things,  that 
they  were  a  wild,  uncouth  race.  Here  were  two 
(he  would  stake  his  life  on  it),  two  good  sports, 
and  gentlemen;  more,  English  or  American  gentle- 
men. How  could  he  fit  them  in  with  newspaper 
stories?  How  could  he  fit  them  in  with  anything 
he  knew?  They  were  a  fresh  experience.  To 
what  people  could  he  affiliate  them?  Certainly  not 
to  the  Americans.  Nor  to  those  others  he  under- 
stood, the  South  Americans,  not  to  any  Europeans 
he  had  encountered. 

Lady  Freke,  who  had  been  watching  him,  said  in 
his  ear,  "They're  the  kings  of  Europe,  these  Ser- 
bians. I'm  a  convert  too.  They're  the  elect,  the 

*  Guslar — pronounced  guss-  (like  puss)   lar. 


THE  NORTONS  41 

aristocrats,  in  a  world  still  made  up  of  a  German- 
English-French-bourgeoisie." 

"But  why  have  we,  except  for  war  stories,  known 
nothing  about  them?"  asked  Horace  perplexedly. 

"Yes,  why?  There's  been  a  conspiracy  of  silence. 
We've  known  worse  than  nothing.  Serbia  has  been 
a  byword,  a  reproach  .  .  .  England's  fault  She 
broke  off  relations  when  they  killed  their  abominable 
king  and  queen  in  1903  ...  a  good  killing,  if  ever 
there  was  one.  .  .  .  But  we've  known  nothing, 
nothing.  Meredith  Dyfed  here  has  known. 
Wretch!"  she  added,  turning  to  Dyfed.  "Why 
haven't  you  told  us  what  Serbia  really  was?" 

"Why  not  try  reading  my  books?"  quizzed  Dy- 
fed. "Dear  lady,  I've  been  telling  you  for  four- 
teen years." 

"Yes,"  put  in  Aileen.  "As  Cheradame  told  us 
for  fifteen,  about  the  German  menace.  But  nobody 
listened." 

"We  have  all  listened  to  Meredith  Dyfed,"  ob- 
jected Lady  Freke.  "And  he  has  never  once  said 
that  the  Serbians  were  the  entrancing  people  they 
are." 

Stefan  kissed  her  hand  again — with  his  serious 
smile.  And  Boyovich,  when  it  was  explained  to 
him,  kissed  the  other  one.  But  Dyfed  himself 
laughed  a  little. 

"You  listen  when  I  take  tea  with  you,  dear  lady, 
— the  best  tea  in  London,  I  admit.  But  we've  never 
happened  to  get  on  to  the  Serbians.  You've  made 
me  talk  till  I  was  ashamed  of  myself — yet  we  didn't 
get  round  to  the  best  of  it  all.  You  listen  too  well. 


42        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

I'd  rather  do  the  listening,  any  day,  with  Lady 
Freke  for  talker/' 

"Do  you  wonder  he's  called  'The  Finest-Gentle- 
man-in-Europe-Second  ?'  I  believe  that  Horace 
was  called  something  like  that  in  Yonkers " 

"In  the  Argentine,  too.  I  have  it  for  a  fact," 
said  Aileen.  "But  we'll  go  in  now.  There's  no 
use  in  waiting  for  that  man  of  mine." 

"Peter  Norton  late  is  prompter  than  the  rest  of 
London  early,"  said  Lady  Freke,  putting  her  hand 
on  Stefan's  arm.  Dyfed,  who  spoke  Serbian,  fol- 
lowed with  Boyovich.  Horace,  as  the  new  comer, 
took  in  his  hostess. 

"Katty  is  without  shame,"  said  Aileen,  as  they 
settled  themselves.  "She  adores  my  husband,  and 
it's  too  open." 

"I  adore  every  handsome  man,"  retorted  Lady 
Freke. 

"All  bow!"  said  Horace  solemnly. 

"You've  a  right  to,"  thus  Katty,  with  a  touch 
of  brogue. 

"Funny,  you  are  all  handsome,"  commented 
Aileen.  "Something  I've  never  before  seen  at  a 
London  table — four  Apollos,  my  word!" 

"Dakovich  is  the  belle  of  the  boarding  house,"  put 
in  Katty  practically.  The  boy  saluted,  silent,  with 
his  grave  smile.  "But  who  comes  next?" 

"Mr.  Dimock,"  asserted  Aileen.  "Though  Mere- 
dith Dyfed  runs  him  close — but  in  an  Oberammera- 
gau  sort  of  way  (as  has  been  said  before).  You're 
last,  Boyovich,  but  you  won't  be  after  Peter  comes." 

"Pleece?"  asked  Boyovich. 


THE  NORTONS  43 

"We're  calling  you  a  tableful  of  good-lookers," 
answered  Katty.  "Mr.  Dyfed  will  explain  it  to 
you.  Never  have  these  mortal  eyes  beheld  four 
such  handsome  men  at  once  in  the  one  room.  Curi- 
ously, we  women  are  as  plain  as  you  are  not." 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Katty  Freke,"  said  Aileen. 
"Captain  Boyovich  here  has  just  said  I  was  as  beau- 
tiful as  his  sister." 

"I  always  remind  them  of  their  mother,"  gloomed 
Lady  Freke. 

"And  the  Lord  he  knows  you're  the  most  un- 
motherly  person  on  the  planet,"  Horace  put  it  feel- 
ingly. 

"She  is  the  true  moth-er,"  interrupted  Dakovich, 
with  a  sudden  flush.  "She  is  Majka*  mother, 
to  me." 

"Nice  child,"  said  Katty  affectionately.  "But 
there  you  are!  I  make  every  man  think  of  his 
mother.  What  could  be  more  disheartening?" 

"Yet  you're  the  youngest  of  us  all,  in  gaiety,  in 
life,"  adjudged  Dyfed. 

"I'm  forty-six."  Lady  Freke  liked  to  take  the 
breath  away,  even  of  old  friends.  "I've  had  three 
husbands — and  if  an  East  African  lion  eats  Blun- 
dell,  I  shall  have  a  fourth,  I  warn  you  all." 

"I've  had  only  one,"  pouted  the  hostess,  "but 
Peter  Norton  is  more  trying  than  a  dozen."  (This 
last  for  her  husband's  benefit,  as  he  came  in  hur- 
riedly. ) 

There  was  a  general  stir  of  reproach  and  af- 
fection. Peter  Norton  stood  pale  and  rigid  by  his 
*  Majka — pronounced  Mye-ka  (mother). 


44        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

wife — touched  her  cheek  absently,  and  crossed  to 
Lady  Freke. 

"Katty,  'tis  always  good  to  see  you!"  He  held 
her  hand  a  long  time,  looking  at  her  with  unseeing 
brilliant  eyes. 

The  Serbians  had  risen  to  greet  him,  and  Horace 
and  Meredith  Dyfed  waited  with  the  understanding 
of  old  friends.  For  Peter  Norton,  even  when  he 
relaxed  in  a  familiar  environment,  gave  the  im- 
pression of  a  nervous  power,  of  an  inescapable 
knowledge,  that  held  you  tense.  He  was  a  man 
who  had  done  great  things  during  the  war,  as  be- 
fore and  after.  More  than  most  Londoners,  per-* 
haps,  he  made  world-wheels  go  round — and  you  al- 
ways felt  that  there  was  a  possibility  of  catching 
him  in  the  act. 

He  dropped  Katty's  hand  as  casually  as  he  had 
held  it;  passed  to  the  Serbians  with  genuine  dis- 
tress at  his  own  neglect ;  around  to  Horace — whom 
he  had  not  seen  for  two  years ;  and  to  Dyfed,  who 
was  his  best  personal  friend,  and  his  keenest  jour- 
nalistic competitor — but  only  to  cut  short  his  own 
greetings. 

"What's  ahead?"  he  burst  out.  "What's  to  come 
of  this  new  Serbian  situation?  Is  the  world  to 
take  fire  again?  Dyfed,  you  know  more  of  the 
Balkans  than  anyone.  Who's  responsible  for  the 
Dalmatian  impasse?" 

"All  of  us,  Peter,"  laughed  Dyfed  bitterly. 
"England,  France,  the  United  States.  And  if  I 
know  my  Serbs,  they'll  fight  for  every  inch  they 
consider  their  own  down  there." 


THE  NORTONS  45 

Stefan  translated  this  in  low,  intense  tones  to 
Boyovich.  Both  faces  were  white  under  their  tan. 
Horace  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  know  what 
desperation,  hatred,  conviction,  lay  not  quite  hid- 
den behind  those  fine  foreign  masks. 

"Peter  Norton,  if  you  hold  up  our  dinner  any 
longer,  I'll  leave  you!"  hurled  Aileen,  at  her  lord. 

Norton  sank  into  his  chair,  and  motioned  the 
soup  away.  Katty,  with  a  nod  to  Aileen,  motioned 
it  back,  put  the  spoon  into  Norton's  hand,  and 
firmly  dipped  the  hand  toward  the  plate. 

"Eat,  Peter,  and  Meredith  Dyfed  shall  talk,"  she 
said.  "Talk,  pretty  creature,  at  once!"  But  Dy- 
fed was  now  speaking  with  Boyovich  in  Serbian, 
the  stranger  obviously  moved,  the  Briton  hiding  his 
own  excitement. 

"They  both  know  it  may  mean  war,"  said  Stefan 
under  his  breath  to  Lady  Freke.  "We  may  have 
to  fight  again,  and  we  are  so  tired  of  fighting." 

"You  poor  kid!"  she  smiled  pitifully  at  him. 
"How  long  have  you  been  fighting?" 

"All  of  this  last  war.  Part  of  the  Second  Balkan 
War,  Madame." 

"And  you  are  now — how  old?" 

"Twenty-two  years,  Madame." 

"And  how  many  of  them  have  been  fighting 
years?" 

"I  think  a  hundred.  But  my  country  has  had 
five  hundred.  Five  hundred  years,  Madame!  .  .  . 
a  country  that  loves  peace.  And  this  day  .  .  .  per- 
haps you  do  not  know  .  .  .  this  is  Kossovo  Day. 
On  this  day  we  held  back  the  Turks  in  1389.  On 


46        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

this  day  a  year  ago  we  began  our  last  offensive  .  .  . 
to  regain  our  beloved  land!" 

He  had  raised  his  voice  ever  so  slightly,  and 
Meredith  Dyfed  turned  a  suddenly  illuminated  face 
toward  him. 

"Kossovo!"  he  said.  "Of  course,  of  course!" 
and  to  Horace's  amazement,  rose  from  his  place 
and  shook  hands  with  each  Serbian,  a  flush  on  his 
usually  cold  face.  "The  world  doesn't  realise,  even 
yet,  what  Kossovo  means  to  history,  to  civilisation." 

Horace  certainly  didn't  realise.  He  didn't  realise 
the  Dalmatian  situation  now,  nor  why  these  stran- 
gers, not  to  speak  of  his  English  friends,  took  it 
with  such  deathly  seriousness. 

"Surely,"  he  began  tentatively,  "you  don't  count 
Italian  aggression  down  there  as  really  formid- 
able?" 

Norton  turned  a  haggard  cheerfulness  upon  him. 
"The  Italians  are  our  friends  and  allies.  Condi- 
tions are  just  now  extraordinarily  delicate.  We 
have  offended  the  Italians  and  have  not  aided  the 
Serbs." 

Dakovich  again  translated  for  his  friend. 

"Freedom!"  Boyovich  ejaculated  in  his  halting 
English.  "We  ask  only  freedom  .  .  .  for  all  ... 
Serbs,  Croats,  Dalmatians  .  .  .  freedom!"  As  the 
older  Serb  spoke,  the  younger  looked  around  the 
table;  at  Horace  as  though  he  defied  him;  at  Nor- 
ton as  though  he  must  explain.  Then  at  Dyfed 
for  understanding.  There  was  something  unhur- 
ried and  splendid  in  his  own  youthful  declaration 
after  this: 


THE  NORTONS  47 

"If  one  mile  of  our  land  is  taken  we  shall  fight. 
The  living  will  gather  from  the  end  of  the  world. 
The  dead  will  rise  from  their  graves." 

Norton,  since  last  speaking,  had  not  looked  up 
from  his  own  plate.  He  had  stopped  eating,  and 
sat  immovable.  Katty  glanced  at  the  others.  Boyo- 
vich  was  white  as  cheese,  his  blue  eyes  like  fires. 
Meredith  Dyfed  was  also  pale,  but  smiling  cynically 
to  himself.  She  turned  from  Horace's  kind,  in- 
terested gaze  in  some  impatience.  What  did  he 
know  about  it?  Then  to  Dakovich.  The  boy  was 
looking  at  her,  sadly,  as  from  a  great  distance, — 
poor,  beautiful  Stefan,  who  had  said  she  was  a 
moth-er  to  him,  and  who  perhaps  must  now  leave 
her,  and  this  wonderful  London,  to  go  back  to  the 
fighting  he  hated! 

She  felt  her  eyes  fill,  and  put  out  her  hand  im- 
pulsively to  touch  the  boy's  clenched  fist  on  the 
white  cloth.  Horace  was  studying  her  in  some 
surprise.  His  interest  in  this  re  found  Europe  was 
still  in  persons,  not  in  politics.  Katty  Freke  had 
never  attracted  him  as  she  had  many  men,  but 
she  was  surely  amazing.  He  realised  that,  with  his 
American  keenness  of  comprehension,  this  Italian- 
Serb  situation  ought  to  interest  him  as  it  did  Nor- 
ton and  Dyfed.  Why  was  he  too  not  absorbed  in 
this  strange  Balkan  business?  But  Katty  was 
amazing.  He  wondered  if  Crystal  would  interest 
him  in  the  same  way?  From  Crystal's  sister  he 
looked  toward  Aileen,  that  charming,  irresponsible 
— and  yes,  clever  creature.  She  was  dressing  a 


48        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

salad  and  too  intent  on  it  for  the  moment  to  notice 
the  silence. 

Norton  looked  up  at  last. 

"Rapacity,  stupidity,  fear  .  .  .  those  are  behind 
this  business,"  he  said.  "They've  been  behind  every 
country  that  has  attacked  Serbia  for  half  a  thou- 
sand years.  That  gallant  little  country !  Jove !"  he 
broke  out  suddenly.  "It's  been  the  bravest  country 
in  the  world.  And  if  we  stand  by  and  see  her 
despoiled  again  .  .  ." 

"If  we  do,"  said  Aileen,  unexpectedly,  "to  Hell 
with  us!"  and,  Aileen  fashion,  stood  up,  and  held 
her  glass  toward  the  Serbians.  "To  the  bravest 
country  in  the  world!" 

"She's  right,"  Norton  said,  as  they  all  stood 
quickly.  "Gentlemen,"  he  added  more  formally, 
in  what  his  wife  called  "Peter's  grand  manner," 
"I  am  proud  to  have  you  at  my  table  this  night. 
History  is  being  made  ...  by  you  more  than  by 
any  of  us.  But  what  will  come  out  of  it,  God 
alone  knows!" 


HORACE  gave  up  the  following  day,  Sunday,  to 
his  correspondence.  But  next  morning  he  walked 
across  Kensington  Gardens  from  his  hotel.  If  Lon- 
don had  been  exhilarating  the  day  of  his  arrival,  it 
was  intoxicating  now.  The  end  of  June,  at  eight 
in  the  morning,  thought  our  American,  with  all  that 
life  in  London  offers  a  man!  The  world  again  at 
peace,  his  own  country  and  his  own  affairs  pros- 
pering amazingly And  when,  as  this  morning, 

they  had  (a  new  concession  to  Americans)  given 
him  grape  fruit  to  begin  his  breakfast  on,  and  ex- 
cellent coffee  (the  old  tradition  of  bad  English 
coffee  was  fading  away)  had  that  man  not  cause 
to  feel  serene?  He  would  see  Crystal  tomorrow — 
beautiful  Crystal  in  the  peaceful  Oxford  country 
— but  at  forty-six  one  is  not  impatient,  even  in  love. 

Eight  o'clock  in  London  is  like  seven  in  America 
— the  world  is  so  much  later  astir.  His  walk  across 
the  Park  was  solitary,  except  for  a  battered  cheery 
individual  in  a  greenish  coat  who  was  setting  out 
some  of  those  green  iron  chairs  you  pay  a  penny 
for — or  was  it  now  tuppence?  Horace  bade  him 
good  morning,  and  liked  the  "Mornin',  Guv'nor"  he 
got  in  return.  When  he  reached  the  Serpentine,  he 

49 


go        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

leaned  awhile  against  the  heavy  balustrade  of  the 
bridge,  looking  east  where  the  early  sun  caught  the 
water.  Not  a  human  being  in  sight — yet  here  he 
stood,  in  the  centre  of  London,  which  meant  the 
centre  of  the  world,  as  much  alone  as  if  he  had 
been  miles  out  in  the  Pampas. 

Katty  had  given  him  some  of  her  special  ciga- 
rettes the  day  before.  He  lighted  one  of  them  now 
— they  were  Irish,  she  had  said — grown,  rolled  and 
sold  in  Ireland.  Hard  to  believe,  but  whatever  they 
were,  excellent.  Irish!  Was  it  true  the  Home 
Rule  question  would  now  settle  itself?  What  peace 
to  hear  no  more  about  it! 

But  another  of  Katty 's  sayings  returned  to  irri- 
tate him  a  little : 

"There's  no  man  living  doesn't  swank  a  bit  if 
he  has  any  Irish  in  him!" 

He,  Horace,  had  no  Irish,  absolutely  none,  the 
Lord  be  praised!  But,  continuing  his  walk,  he 
thought,  there's  apparently  no  getting  away  from 
the  race.  Never,  never,  did  you  escape  some  form 
of  Irish  activity.  Now  with  the  world  so  tranquil 
again  this  divine  June,  1919,  (that  Serbian  non- 
sense wouldn't  amount  to  much),  why  must  the 
Irish  question,  even  on  the  way  to  settlement,  why 
should  it  everlastingly  make  for  discord? 

Norton  had  written  him,  months  before  the  war, 
that  his  Ulster  lot  would  fight  Home  Rule  to  the 
last  gasp.  Now  he  was,  if  Lady  Freke  proved 
right,  for  conciliation.  Conciliate  an  Irishman? 
That  meant  only  gross  flattery — Bah !  You  needn't 
yield  him  an  inch;  everything  could  go  on  as  it 


DAPHNE  51 

had;  but  you  pretended  you  yielded  everything;  you 
gave  him  the  semblance;  you  kept  the  reality.  He 
knew  from  his  own  dealings  with  the  race  in  South 
America.  These  arrogant  English  could  have  had 
the  business  settled  half  a  century  before  if  they 
had  gope  on  what  Lady  Freke  called  the  "butter- 
ing" principle — Bah!  There  was  no  getting  away 
from  them  in  private  life,  either.  Was  he  not  on 
his  way  that  moment  to  urge  one  of  them  back 
to  the  paths  of  sanity? 

It  was  natural  to  wonder  what  that  particular 
Irish  problem,  what  Daphne,  would  be  like.  Not 
Leonora,  Katty  had  said — evidently  calmer — a 
stronger  character  generally,  and  more  beautiful 
than  the  mother. 

Leonora  had  been  pretty,  fragile,  dainty,  with 
enormous  nervous  force,  in  spite  of  her  daintiness. 
Was  any  love  like  first  love?  Nothing  so  enduring, 
so  absorbing,  above  all,  so  delicate,  had  he  ever 
known  as  his  passion  for  Leonora.  But  he  had 
no  money  in  those  days ;  he  was  only  nineteen ;  his 
father  destined  him  for  a  profession  he  hated,  the 
mining  engineer's;  and  in  his  long  absence  at  col- 
lege on  the  other  side  of  the  continent,  Leonora  had 
suddenly  married  Desmond  O'Brien.  There  was 
one  child,  Daphne  Frances — Daphne  to  please  some 
romance  in  the  mother,  Frances  because  Desmond 
O'Brien's  child  must,  being  Roman  Catholic,  have 
a  saint's  name. 

Poor  Leonora!  When  Horace  'returned  to 
Yonkers,  his  training  behind  him  (how  he  had  hated 
that  raw  western  university!),  there  was  a  scene 


52        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

he  shuddered  even  now  to  remember.  Leonora  still 
loved  him.  She  had  married  Desmond  in  a  fit  of 
pique;  she  had  bitterly  resented  bearing  Desmond's 
child;  she  cried  out  that  she  would  leave  child  and 
home  and  good  name  to  run  away  with  Horace. 

And  when  Horace,  who  had  already  a  new  love 
(a  pretty  milliner,  who  was  absurdly  devoted  to 
him  for  six  months),  gently  put  her  off,  she  grew 
desperate.  He  took  pains  (for  Desmond  was  ab- 
sent) to  lock  up  his  host's  revolver  and  razors. 
Horace  was  only  twenty-one,  but  his  knowledge  of 
hysterical  women  was  intuitive — and  already  varied. 
One  does  not  remain  a  Simon  Stylites  on  a  lonely 
pillar  when  one  spends  two  years  away  from  fam- 
ily, neighbourly  strictures,  and  inquisitive  friends, 
with  a  profession  one  hates,  and  a  thwarted  love 
affair  behind  one. 

But  Leonora  went  on  living.  He  did  not  see 
her  for  ten  years. 

When  she  was  dying,  at  thirty,  of  tuberculosis, 
she  sent  for  him.  (Desmond  had  been  dead  for 
several  years.)  He,  Horace,  must  be  Daphne's 
guardian — poor  Leonora  did  not  know  how  he 
loathed  children — but  she  remembered  only  that  she 
still  loved  him,  that  he  was  wealthy,  that  he  had 
no  children  of  his  own.  He  was  much  moved  by 
that  pathetic  death  scene.  Nothing  would  content 
poor  Leonora  but  dying  with  her  hand  in  his;  and 
of  course  he  had  made  the  most  satisfying  prom- 
ises as  to  Daphne's  future.  Promises  he  had 
kept,  too. 

The  girl  was  now  twenty-two.    His  guardianship 


DAPHNE  53 

had  come  to  an  end  when  she  was  eighteen.  He 
had  then  turned  over  the  little  capital  her  mother 
had  left,  well  invested,  so  that  Daphne  had  at  least 
the  means  of  existence. 

She  had  been  the  most  engaging  child.  Far  pret- 
tier than  poor  Leonora ;  but  then  Desmond  O'Brien 
was  rather  a  handsome  fellow.  Engaging,  but  very 
definite ;  and  somewhat  disconcerting  to  a  man  with 
no  understanding  of  children.  Her  education  had 
been  in  the  Convent  of  the  Ladies  of  the  Sacred 
Heart,  whence  she  wrote  him  once  a  month  that  she 
was  perfectly  happy. 

One  year  she  had  spent  in  France,  in  the  Order's 
best  House  there,  and  her  holidays  were  always  with 
Crystal,  who  loved  her  dearly,  or  with  Katty,  who 
was  by  way  of  being  an  aunt — (Merton  Hazleby 
White  having  been  Leonora's  brother) — so  that 
Horace  could  feel  that  she  had  all  possible  advan- 
tages. 

Her  holidays  had  never  happened  to  coincide  with 
bis  visits  to  either  Yonkers  or  England,  so  that  he 
had  only  hearsay  to  go  on,  and  Daphne's  own  dutiful 
letters.  Had  those  letters  possessed  any  of  the 
child's  own  charm,  Horace  would  undoubtedly  have 
become  her  admirer,  even  in  the  role  of  guardian, 
for  the  epistolary  art  was  a  very  important  one  to 
Horace.  Half  of  Crystal's  claim  on  his  continued 
devotion  lay  in  her  really  astonishing  letters.  One 
would  have  expected  Katty,  the  brilliant  sister,  to 
write  good  letters,  especially  in  the  land  of  good 
note  and  letter  writing,  but  it  was  Crystal,  who 
seldom  sparkled,  who  made  no  epigrams,  who  did 


54        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

not  know  the  great  of  this  world  unless  Katty 
brought  them  to  her;  it  was  Crystal  who  wrote  a 
letter  you  cou4d  read  a  dozen  times  with  enjoyment 
of  its  humour  and  fine  turns  of  expression;  not 
to  mention  an  individual  and  beautiful  handwriting. 
Horace  had  never  received  letters  like  hers.  He 
wrote  a  delightful  letter  himself.  Crystal  thought 
it  something  astonishingly  fine;  so  had  thought  Al- 
pha, Patty,  and  Leonora.  Even  Peter  Norton  had 
maintained  a  flattering  correspondence  with  him. 

He  brought  his  reflections  back  to  Daphne  with 
an  effort.  At  eighteen  she  had  announced,  when 
she  wrote  to  thank  him  warmly,  if  somewhat  dryly, 
for  his  then  concluding  guardianship,  that  she 
wished  to  embrace  the  religious  life — to  enter  a 
convent,  in  short.  Horace,  born  and  educated  a 
Catholic,  had  not  the  reverence  a  non-Catholic 
sometimes  entertains  for  anything  so  sublime,  so 
self-sacrificing,  as  that  renunciation  of  the  world. 
He  therefore  put  it  to  her,  in  his  long  letter,  that 
if  she  really  felt,  as  she  said  she  did,  any  gratitude 
to  him  for  his  eight  years'  charge  of  her  interests, 
would  she  make  him  the  return  of  postponing  her 
decision  by  half  that  time? 

Daphne  had  unwillingly  acquiesced.  Horace 
knew  that  both  Crystal  and  Katty  had  mothered  the 
charming  girl,  and  would  go  on  doing  so.  If  the 
world  was  to  offset  the  convent — the  world  had 
certainly  a  fair  chance  at  the  hands  of  those  two 
wonderful  and  diverse  women.  Beside,  the  war  was 
on.  He  knew  both  sisters  would  find  enough  for 
her  to  do. 


DAPHNE  55 

But  the  moment  the  four  years  were  up,  Daphne 
had  written  him  that  she  was  presenting  herself 
that  day  at  the  door  of  a  certain  cloistered  Order 
in  London.  Her  spiritual  adviser  approved,  the 
Bishop  himself  thought  she  had  the  vocation.  With 
the  letter  had  come  the  cablegram  from  Lady 
Freke. 

And  here  he  was  in  response  to  it. 

Horace  found  himself  at  the  other  side  of  the 
Gardens — in  the  Bayswater  Road.  Opposite  him 
the  big  houses  of  Lancaster  Gate  rose  like  grey 
cliffs  in  an  urban  sunshine.  Some  taxis  waited  on 
a  nearby  cab-rank,  and  calling  one,  he  asked  the 
driver  to  let  down  the  top,  and  was  soon  sliding 
toward  his  destination  .  .  .  "En  prince,"  he  said  to 
himself,  removing  his  hat,  partly  for  the  pleasure 
of  making  this  royal  tour  bareheaded,  and  partly 
because  he  believed  sunlight  good  on  somewhat 
sparse  locks. 

The  last  part  of  the  journey  was  through  wide 
but  mean  streets,  and  Horace,  who  would  have  had 
all  life  regulated  "en  prince"  was  glad  to  be  done 
with  them,  to  be  dropped  at  the  long,  high  wall,  to 
be  free  to  knock  at  the  blank  door. 

A  fat  little  lay  sister  let  him  in.  He  was  Miss 
O'Brien's  former  guardian?  Yes,  he  was  expected. 
And  if  he  would  wait  till  after  mass  he  should  see 
her — Sister  Mary  of  the  Incarnation.  Yes,  the 
chapel  was  just  there,  on  his  left.  There  was  also 
an  entrance  for  the  public,  but  few  came. 

Horace,  who  had  a  genius  for  making  friends, 
learned  that  this  was  Sister  Martina,  a  lay  sister 


56        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

only.  Oh,  yes,  free  to  go  into  the  world,  not  clois- 
tered like  the  others.  There  were  two  of  them, 
herself  and  Sister  Theophila.  They  went  every  day 
to  market — it  was  something  to  provide  the  food 
for  all  those  blessed  sisters — and  Reverend  Mother 
was  a  saint,  but  delicate.  You  had  to  be  sure  she 
got  nourishing  food,  in  spite  of  herself.  And  Sister 
Mary  of  the  Incarnation?  (who  was  to  be—of 
course — they  were  all  so  sure  of  her  piety  they 
called  her  already  by  her  name  in  religion)  indeed, 
they  all  loved  her.  She  had  the  certain  makings 
of  a  good  nun.  You  could  tell  it  if  a  new  sister 
had  the  vocation — she,  Sister  Martina,  could. 

Horace  shook  hands  with  her  warmly,  a  little 
to  her  embarrassment,  and  passed  into  the  chapel. 
It  was  just  nine.  Horace  wondered  if  the  sun 
had  clouded  over,  or  if  it  had  turned  cold,  the 
chapel  was  so  forbiddingly  chill,  so  without  colour 
or  beauty.  Mass  was  being  said,  and  one  or  two 
old  women  knelt  in  a  seat  forward.  There  was, 
not  far  from  them,  a  solitary  youthful  figure — 
that,  in  some  surprise,  he  decided  must  be  Daphne's. 
He  had  expected  to  see  her  in  the  veil  of  the  novice, 
but  Daphne — he  knew  her  now,  by  the  thick  braids 
wound  round  the  dark  head — Daphne  was  in  an 
ordinary  black  frock,  with  a  knitted  black  shawl, 
like  that  of  a  peasant  woman  in  Venice,  around 
the  slim  shoulders,  the  merest  shadow  of  a  veil 
over  her  hair. 

It  would  all  have  seemed  intolerable  had  it  not 
been  for  the  sudden  response  of  women's  voices, 
coming  sweetly  from  behind  the  tall  arched  grating 


DAPHNE  57 

to  the  right,  as  you  faced  the  altar.  Horace's  heart 
gave  a  little  jump — was  it  the  mystery  of  the  thing, 
the  beauty  of  the  service,  or  some  long  silent  re- 
minder of  his  own  Catholic  youth?  He  knelt  au- 
tomatically, just  as  he  had  automatically  made  his 
genuflection  upon  entering  the  pew — and  he  re- 
mained kneeling,  studying  Daphne's  pretty  head, 
the  fervour  of  her  devotions,  and  the  more  distant 
figure  of  the  priest,  saying  mass,  and  that  of  the 
small  boy  who  was  serving. 

Suddenly  he  realised  that  the  space  was  narrow, 
and  one  of  Katty  Freke's  irreverences  came  into  his 
mind :  "A  fat  man  in  a  tight  pew  can't  be  religious 
— he's  a  profane  misfit."  Horace  was  distinctly  not 
fat,  but  he  shifted  quickly  to  his  seat  as  he  re- 
membered Katty. 

Leaning  back,  he  contrasted  this  with  the  last 
mass  he  had  heard — in  the  Argentine,  in  an  old 
Spanish  Mission,  far  inland,  where  the  sun-baked 
mud  walls  kept  out  the  heat,  and  the  gaudily  col- 
oured windows  let  in  the  gold  through  rose  and 
green  and  blue  in  patches  on  the  hard-trodden  earth 
floor.  It  had  not  been  Sunday,  not  even  a  Feast 
Day,  but  some  fifty  or  sixty  figures  came  and  went 
in  the  warm  obscurity.  Mostly  brown-armed 
women  in  white  chemises  and  coloured  petticoats. 

It  was  all  right  there — the  Church  was — it  was 
stunning — but  it  needed  the  South,  the  warmth  and 
colour  of  the  Tropics.  Here  it  was  unrelieved 
greyness,  with  those  two  or  three  lonely  black 
figures,  and  the  decorations  thin  and  poor.  Daphne's 
little  knitted  shawl  was  a  part  of  it,  it  meant  the 


58        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

cold,  the  sordid  cheapness  of  this  northern  Cathol- 
icism. 

Horace  closed  his  eyes — to  shut  it  out.  Also, 
for  he  was  a  sybarite  to  sound  as  to  sight,  to  listen 
the  better  to  those  feminine  voices  behind  the  grill. 
He  pictured  the  nuns  there,  their  lovely  faces 
framed  in  the  white  bands,  their  clear  eyes  shining 
in  the  gloom  or  hidden  as  they  prayed — in  old  pic- 
tures the  saints  raised  their  eyes  in  prayer.  Did 
these  modern  saints  look  up  or  down?  No,  they 
were  not  so  much  saints  as  a  flock  of  birds  settling, 
crowded  like  birds,  their  plumage  all  alike,  brush- 
ing one  against  the  others. 

He  opened  his  own  eyes  to  glance  again  at 
Daphne.  Was  it  easier  to  think  of  her  behind  that 
cage,  than  still  outside,  in  the  clothes  of  the  world? 
The  little  tinkle  of  the  mass  bell  brought  him  once 
more  to  his  knees.  Curious  how  it  took  him  back 
to  his  boyhood  and  the  weekly  attendance  in  that 
ugly  little  church  on  the  Hudson! 

Was  he  renegade  to  have  dropped  all  that?  Or 
was  it  the  inevitable  development  of  a  wider  life? 
To  every  man  his  mental  pabulum,  said  Herbert 
Spencer — or  something  like  that.  Roman  Cathol- 
icism had  not  provided  his  mental  pabulum.  Would 
it  Daphne's? 

His  friend  Tom  McCarthy,  though  a  Catholic, 
had  had  some  un-Catholic  points  of  view.  "You're 
a  holy  Roman  by  temperament — nothing  else,"  he 
used  to  declare.  And  that  was  only  another  way 
of  stating  the  late  Mr.  Spencer's  theory. 

But  Tom's  way,  or  the  great  philosopher's  way, 


DAPHNE  59 

Horace  had  not  found  his  mind's  food  there,  and 
so  had  not  remained  a  holy  Roman.  Would  little 
Daphne  ? 

Some  time  must  have  elapsed,  for  coming  back 
to  the  actual  scene,  Horace  beheld  his  ward,  re- 
turned from  the  Communion  he  had  been  too  ab- 
stracted to  observe,  slowly  descending  the  two  steps 
into  the  body  of  the  church.  It  was  the  first  time 
he  had  seen  her  face.  She  carried  herself  stiffly, 
rather  like  an  up-to-date  Fra  Angelico  angel, 
Horace  smiled  to  himself,  with  her  hands  held  some- 
what awkwardly  together,  her  head  a  little  awk- 
wardly on  one  side,  her  eyes  down. 

Often  as  Horace  had  seen  the  recipients  of  Holy 
Communion  after  the  great  moment,  he  had  never 
realised  a  certain  consciousness  of  attitude  that 
must  strike  the  outsider.  It  chilled  him  a  little — he 
had  often  thought  Daphne,  when  he  had  spared  time 
to  think  of  her  at  all — as  difficult,  disconcerting,  but 
never  as  affected. 

Just  then  she  raised  her  eyes,  looking  straight 
at  him,  but  not  seeing  him.  They  were  blue  eyes, 
green-blue,  large  and  clear.  And  in  them  so  pure 
a  light,  so  mature  a  conviction,  that  Horace  ban- 
ished all  idea  of  affectation  in  a  flash.  She  turned 
quietly  to  the  side  opposite  where  he  stood,  and 
disappeared.  The  old  women,  snuffling  a  little,  dis- 
appeared too — and  Horace  waited  there  like  a  man 
in  a  dream. 

This  developed,  positive,  beautiful  personality, 
could  this  be  little  Daphne  O'Brien? 


60        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

He  gazed  at  the  door  through  which  she  had  van- 
ished. Something  uncomfortable  thumped  at  his 
side.  It  was  a  moment  before  he  recognised  his 
heart  beats.  His  heart — the  war-worn  heart  of 
forty-six !  Beating  like  a  boy's. 

Someone  must  have  been  sitting  behind  him,  for 
a  figure  rose  from  a  few  seats  back,  and  came 
toward  him.  It  was  Lady  Freke.  He  shook  hands 
mechanically,  still  occupied  with  this  astonishing 
problem  of  an  enthralling  Daphne,  dimly  conscious 
— the  deuce! — of  an  enthralled  Horace. 

Lady  Freke's  knowing  monocle  brought  him  back 
to  actuality.  "You  said  'the  deuce!'  My  dear 
friend,  that's  no  remark  for  this  place." 

"I  didn't  know  I  said  it,"  replied  Horace,  pulling 
himself  together.  "I'll  admit  I  thought  it." 

"Ah?" 

"That  charming  young  creature — she's  knocked 
me  silly." 

"It  was  even  money  that  she  would,"  said  the 
irreverent  lady.  "I'd  like  to  think  you'd  knocked 
her  sensible — got  her  out  of  this,  in  fact.  Well, 
I'll  give  you  every  opportunity.  Here's  Sister  Mar- 
tina. Do  we  see  Sister  Mary  of  the  Incarnation 
in  the  usual  little  room,  Sister?" 

Sister  Martina  nodded,  and  led  the  way  up  one 
broad  flight  of  low  stairs,  to  a  long,  bare,  shining 
corridor,  where  she  opened  a  door  on  her  left.  The 
room  into  which  they  were  ushered  was  tiny,  with 
one  window  facing  the  door,  and  between  door  and 
window  another  aperture,  some  three  feet  square, 
with  a  broad  sill  like  a  counter,  and  an  iron  grill, 


DAPHNE  61 

instead  of  glass.  Horace  could  see  that  this  gave  on 
to  an  even  smaller  room,  also  with  door  and  window. 

"I'm  supposed  to  stay  here  with  you,"  said  his 
friend,  "and  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  You'll 
have  more  influence  if  you  tackle  her  alone.  And 
I've  my  morning  paper,  and  shall  read  it  outside 
here,  so  don't  hurry." 

Horace  felt  a  gratitude  out  of  proportion  to  the 
deed.  He  found  himself  holding  Katty's  hand  as 
he  stammered  his  thanks. 

"Glory  be!"  Katty  Freke  said  to  herself,  closing 
the  door.  "Horace  Dimock's  beaux  yeux  against 
the  cloistered  life! — No  hope,  of  course,  but  I'll 
take  a  chance!" 

Horace  had  hardly  felt  the  door  close  when 
Daphne  appeared  noiselessly  on  the  other  side  of  the 
grill.  She  smiled  quite  naturally  at  him,  all  the 
exaltation  of  the  chapel  gone. 

"Uncle  Horace !  How  very  nice  of  you  to  come ! 
But  where  is  Katty?" 

"If  she's  Katty,  I  refuse  to  be  'Uncle  Horace/ 
even  to  a  holy  nun,"  he  heard  himself  saying,  in 
his  usual  bantering  fashion. 

"Horace,  how  very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  said 
Daphne,  simply  and  affectionately.  All  the  aloof- 
ness, all  the  self-confidence  that  had  so  displeased 
him  in  her  childhood,  seemed  to  have  disappeared. 
She  was  almost  benignant — and  Horace  remem- 
bered that  Katty  had  said  he  would  feel  like  a 
small  boy. 

"I  suppose  she'll  come  in  a  moment,"  Daphne 
went  on.  "She  is  my  'official  family,'  you  know, 


62        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

as  you  were  away  and  Crystal  had  not  arrived  on 
this  side.  But  won't  you  sit  there — Horace — and 
we  can  talk  a  little?" 

"I've  talked  to  friends  behind  the  bars  before 
this,  Daphne,  but  they  were  there  against  their  will. 
You,  I  take  it,  could  be  free  if  you  liked." 

"I  could  never  be  so  free  in  the  world  as  I  am 
here,  Uncle  Horace,  I  mean  Horace.  You  won't 
perhaps  believe  me — but  here — how  can  I  express 
it?  There  is  a  freedom  of  the  soul — and  I  don't 
mind  the  restrictions  of  the  body." 

"You  have  thought  this  out,  very,  very  care- 
fully?" said  Horace,  feeling  like  a  fool  as  he 
said  it. 

Daphne's  kind  glance  did  not  make  him  feel 
otherwise. 

"You  don't  think  I'd  be  going  in  for  it  if  I  hadn't 
studied  the  pros  and  cons?" 

"But  have  you  reflected  that  you  could  do  a  great 
deal  outside,  and  that  you'll  do  nothing  here,  ex- 
cept  " 

"Except  save  my  own  soul?  You're  a  Catholic, 
Uncle  Horace;  you  know  that  the  cloistered  life  has 
other  objects  than  selfishly  saving  one's  own  soul." 

"The  cloistered  life  is  all  very  well  for  girls  who 
can  do  nothing  else — but  you  could  do — is  there 
anything  you  couldn't  do,  Daphne?" 

"You  talk  like  my  Protestant  friends,"  smiled 
the  girl.  "And  you  know  something  better." 

"But  at  least  a  practical,  a  working  Order?  I 
could  reconcile  myself  to  a  life  devoted  to  the  poor 
or  the  sick — but  this " 


DAPHNE  63 

"If  I  do  feel  the  call  to  the  contemplative  life, 
don't  you  believe  my  prayers,  even  behind  this  grill, 
will  be  as  tangibly  for  good  as  my  nursing  or  teach- 
ing or  going  amongst  the  poor?" 

Jove!     How  beautiful  she  was! 

Horace  tried  for  a  lightness  he  did  not  feel.  "I 
don't  wish  to  play  Devil's  Advocate,  my  dear.  It 
would  only  be  canonising  you  the  sooner.  But  look 
at  me."  (Horace  knew  he  was  good  to  look  at.)1 
"Is  the  world  nothing,  nothing,  to  you?" 

Daphne  looked  at  him  as  peacefully  as  one  looks 
at  a  photograph. 

"If  it  were  nothing,"  she  said,  "where  would  my 
sacrifice  be?  And  a  sacrifice  is  all  I  have  to  bring 
when  I  enter  here." 

Horace  had  risen  and,  unknown  to  himself,  was 
clenching  the  bars  of  the  grill  in  rigid  hands. 
Daphne  looked  with  some  wonder  at  the  knuckles — 
so  white,  they  seemed  to  stick  out  of  the  dark  skin 
— it  must  be  a  fierce  grip — and  then  up,  for  she  was 
still  seated,  into  the  face  above. 

Who  shall  say  what  she  saw  there? 

Horace  was  very  pale,  his  black  brows  drawn 
together  in  a  frown,  his  eyes  so  intent  on  her  they 
seemed  an  entity  apart,  pursuing  her. 

The  girl  drew  back  a  little,  looking  at  him.  "I'm 
sorry  if  it  makes  you  angry.  I  didn't  know  you 
felt  like  that  about  it." 

"It!  You,  not  it.  I'd  break  these  bars  to  get 
you  out  if  I  could."  (For  a  moment  Daphne  feared 
he  could.)  "It's  a  hideous  mistake.  Hideous.  You 
were  made  for  the  world,  Daphne,  for  the  sunlight, 


64        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

for  the  rest  of  us,  for  love.  You'll  never  even  know 
what  love  is  now." 

Daphne  had  risen,  poised  for  flight,  and  looked 
at  him  over  her  shoulder,  with  wide  blue-green 
eyes. 

"You're  wrong  there,  Horace,"  came  her  lovely 
undisturbed  voice.  "There's  a  possibility  and  ex- 
pression of  love  here  in  this  convent  so  far  beyond 
anything  outside,  so  far  beyond  any  mortal  love, 
that  it  is  like  the  whole  sky  to  a  single  cloud.  And 
could  I,  in  my  right  senses,  go  out  into  the  world 
to  secure  that  single  cloud  and  leave  the  whole  sky 
behind  me?  Never." 

She  slipped  from  the  room  as  noiselessly  as  she 
had  entered  it.  He  saw  the  door  close,  and  waited, 
staring  stupidly  at  it  for  her  to  reappear. 

"Damn !"  he  said  at  last,  under  his  breath,  realis- 
ing that  she  would  not  come  back. 

When  a  man  finds  himself  ridiculous,  as  Horace 
did  now,  he  must  either  swear  it,  or  laugh  it,  off. 
Horace  chose  finally  to  grin.  What  was  he  doing, 
old  fox  of  forty-six,  in  this  hennery?  Anyway, 
what  did  he  want  with  pullets,  even  the  tenderest? 

He  opened  the  door  and  faced  Lady  Freke,  smil- 
ing cynically  at  her. 

"You  drew  a  blank,  Katty,"  he  said  at  once. 

"Mercy  on  us!  The  man's  too  intelligent,"  an- 
swered Lady  Freke.  "How  did  you  know  I  was 
playing  for  big  stakes?" 

"I  didn't  know  it  then — I  realise  it  only  now. 
You  were  right — she's  adorable.  And  she  did  make 


DAPHNE  65 

me  feel  like  a  youthful  guttersnipe.  But  she's  in  to 
stay." 

They  walked  slowly  down  the  stairs.  Sister  Mar- 
tina, with  some  sewing  in  her  hand,  waited  for  them 
at  the  door. 

"You've  won  out,  Sister,"  said  Lady  Freke,  rue- 
fully, as  she  and  Horace  shook  hands  with  the  smil- 
ing little  old  woman.  "I  thought  her  guardian 
would  persuade  her  she  was  wrong,  but  he's  failed, 
like  the  rest  of  us." 

"O  my  lady,"  said  Sister  Martina  earnestly,  "it 
would  be  wrong  to  interfere  with  a  vocation.  The 
Bishop  himself  says  he  may  have  been  mistaken 
before,  but  with  Sister  Mary  of  the  Incarnation  he's 
certain.  She  luts  the  vocation.  Let  me  tell  your 
ladyship  something  that  happened  the  day  you 
brought  her.  You  left  her  with  me,  you  remember 
—she  wanted  to  come  in  quite  alone.  A  poor  little 
dog  had  come  in  at  the  same  time,  hungry,  I  sup- 
pose, and  she  leaned  down  just  to  pat  him.  But, 
'Oh,  I  mustn't,'  she  said,  and  stood  up." 

"But  surely,"  protested  Katty. 

"Oh,  there  was  no  reason — love  of  animals  is  not 
forbidden.  Think  of  blessed  St.  Francis  himself, 
loving  all  of  them.  No,  it  was  just  the  feeling. 
She  was  giving  up  everything.  She  wanted  to  give 
up  everything.  O  my  lady,  if  ever  anyone  had  the 
vocation,  it's  Sister  Mary  of  the  Incarnation." 

Lady  Freke's  car  awaited  them  in  the  sunny, 
silent  street.  Horace  handed  in  his  companion,  but 
paused  himself. 


66        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"I  believe  I'll  walk,"  he  said. 

Katty  looked  at  him.  "Life's  an  extraordinary 
game,  isn't  it?  Is  someone  moving  us,  or  do  we 
make  our  own  moves?  You'd  better  not  walk,  my 
friend.  It's  warm,  and  a  long  way." 

"Take  the  line  of  least  resistance,  you  mean? 
That's  always  wisdom."  As  he  got  in,  and  Katty 
had  nodded  to  the  chauffeur,  she  observed  with  a 
shrug, 

"Say  'Damn,'  if  you  like,  Horace." 

"I've  said  it,"  replied  Horace. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   POND   HOUSE 

"BOBBY — Bobby — Bobbee — Bobobobobee !"  came 
Mr.  Honey's  voice,  in  a  persistent  but  unresentful 
wail. 

Mr.  Honey  was  eight  His  name  was  Weelum 
Jawge,  or  what  sounded  like  that,  but  at  the  Pond 
House  he  was  known  only  as  Mr.  Honey.  His 
friend  and  admirer,  Bobby,  sometimes  felt  that  un- 
explained meanings  lurked  behind  that  appellation 
of  "Mr.  Honey"  by  the  elders.  But  Bobby  was 
five,  and  many  things  are  still  dark  at  five. 

"Bobbee,  Bobbee "  Mr.  Honey's  small,  thin 

voice  could  now  be  located  on  the  shaky  paddock 
gate.  The  gate  vibrated  with  Mr.  Honey's  insig- 
nificant weight,  but  it  was  a  very  old  gate,  perhaps 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  like  the  house. 

"Bobby!"  came  the  firm  voice  of  Bobby's  sister 
Bedelia,  older  than  Bobby  by  some  four  years.  Be- 
delia  was  really  Constance  Isabel,  "Bedelia,"  the 
'affectionate  bestowal  of  a  light  minded  aunt,  Lady 
Freke,  in  fact. 

"Bobby  McClinton,  if  you  can't  stop  Mr.  Honey 
from  making  that  row,  I'll  'sic'  Finn  McCoul  on 
to  him." 

Bobby  appeared  reluctantly  at  the  kitchen  door, 
67 


68        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

his  adorable  small  countenance  smeared  with  the 
new  gooseberry  jam  Mrs.  Rumbold  was  making. 

"Where  are  you,  B'delia?"  he  enquired  with  an 
effort,  for  gooseberry  jam,  taken  too  enthusiasti- 
cally, interferes  with  vocal  expression. 

Bedelia  vouchsafed  no  response,  but  Finn  McCoul 
barked  shortly,  and  drew  Bobby's  guileless  gaze  up- 
wards. There  in  the  fork  of  the  old  apple  tree  was 
his  sister  reading,  curled  uncomfortably,  with  the 
irate  fox  terrier  as  uncomfortably  scrabbled  against 
her,  only  partially  supported  by  the  bough. 

Bobby's  gaze,  drawn  by  the  renewed  "Bobbee — 
Bobbee!"  wandered  from  the  half  hidden  white 
figure  in  the  thick  leafage  to  the  solitary  grey  one, 
outside  the  paddock  gate. 

"Oh!  Weelum  Jawge!"  he  called  joyfully,  "I'll 
be  out  in  a  minute — wiv  somefin  good!" 

"Not  afore  ee  gives  back  my  spoon,  Master 
Bobby,"  came  Mrs.  Rumbold's  warning  voice.  "And 
I'll  ask  Mummer  to  forbid  ee  comin'  into  my  kitchen, 
I  will  so — gooseberry  time  be  no  time  for  ee." 

"  Tisn't  your  kitchen,"  said  Bobby  stoutly.  "It's 
our  kitchen.  And  anyway,  I'm  goin'  to  ask  Mum- 
mie  if  I  can  have  some  of  ve  jam  for  Mr.  Honey." 

"There  ee  go  again.  Whatever  next,  I  says? 
Pain  in  stummick'll  get  ee,  and  yon  Mistah  Honey?' 

But  Bobby  had  dashed  through  the  house  to  find 
his  mother. 

It  was  nearly  noon,  and  Crystal,  her  hurried  task 
of  setting  Pond  House  to  rights  quite  finished, 
leaned  back  restfully  in  a  long  chair,  under  the 
rose  trees. 


THE  POND  HOUSE  69 

The  Pond  House  garden  was  an  oasis  of  green 
shadow  at  the  junction  of  the  wide  silvery  pond 
and  the  sunny  village  street.  It  was  shut  in  by 
a  high  mellow-coloured  brick  wall,  with  a  lichen- 
grown  coping  of  stone.  The  lawn  close  to  the  house 
was  broken  by  two  rose  trees,  whose  branches  had 
been  trained  into  a  canopy,  a  summer  ceiling  of 
yellowish  roses  and  green  leaves.  Under  this  sat 
Crystal  in  her  long  chair,  and  here  her  small  boy 
poured  out  his  eager  request. 

"Jam   for  Mr.   Honey,  please,  Mummie!" 

"No.  Mrs.  Rumbold  is  like  other  artists,  my  son," 
came  Crystal's  tranquil  voice.  "You  mustn't  dis- 
turb her  great  work  till  it's  done.  But  under  the 
dresser  you'll  find  some  most  attractive  cakes,  two 
for  you,  two  for  Bedelia,  and  three  for  Mr.  Honey." 

"You're  a  peach,  Mummie!"  said  young  America, 
departing  gleefully. 

Crystal  smiled  up  at  the  rose  canopy.  What  a 
delicious  world  it  was !  Opposite  her  the  sun  shone 
on  the  old  white  plastered  house,  softened  by  a  gay 
pink  rose  that  nearly  covered  it.  The  funny  little 
pointed  lattice  over  the  entrance,  heavy  with  honey- 
suckle, had  on  the  one  side  a  low  square  window 
looking  into  the  hall;  on  the  other,  the  long,  open 
French  windows  of  the  drawing  room.  Above  them 
two  more  squat  windows  told  of  the  two  country 
bedrooms,  and  above  them  again,  the  red-brown 
tiles  of  the  old  roof. 

Inside,  Crystal  knew  all  these  rooms,  and  those 
whose  windows  looked  in  other  directions,  to  be 
spotlessly  swept  and  garnished — roses  everywhere; 


70        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

the  flowered  bed  and  window  curtains,  and  the  tall 
glass  carafes  and  jugs  filled  with  clear  water,  making 
the  upper  rooms  fresh  and  cool.  Downstairs,  the 
tiled  floors  newly  done  with  red,  clean  custom 
of  those  Oxfordshire  cottages.  In  the  white  living 
room,  really  a  kitchen,  other  touches  of  dull  red, 
the  beauty  of  the  blue  and  white  dishes,  the  blue 
linen  hangings  stretched  on  the  otherwise  too  star- 
ing walls,  and  the  intense  blue  note  of  a  friendly, 
solid  biscuit  jar  in  the  middle  of  the  white  dresser. 
A  delicious  little  house.  Would  Horace  like  it? 
Horace  didn't  care,  really,  for  the  simple  life.  He 
thought  he  did,  and  it  was  a  part  of  Crystal's  home 
building  instinct  to  ensure  that  every  comfort,  every 
luxury,  was  ready  at  her  friend's  hand,  yet  without 
disturbing  the  general  sense  of  country  simplicity. 

"A  virtuous  woman  like  Crystal  deceives  a  man 
for  his  own  good,"  often  said  her  sister  Katty;  "a 
bad  one  for  her  own.  And  I,  neither  good  nor  bad, 
tell  him  the  truth  so  openly  he  always  believes  me 
lying." 

Crystal  smiled  again.  If  Katty  meant  all  she 
said!  'Twould  be  what  Mrs.  Rumbold  called  "a 
pretty  pickle,  m'm." 

And  Katty  would  be  down  next  day.  How  for- 
tunate she  hadn't  put  Horace  off  till  the  Wednesday, 
as  she  had  been  minded  to !  For  now  he  would  come 
this  afternoon,  there'd  be  all  of  twenty-four  hours 
before  little  Katty  arrived,  Katty  with  her  bright 
speculative  eyes.  Crystal  pictured  Horace's  hand- 
some, rather  tired,  head  in  the  hammock  opposite; 
Horace  looking  appreciatively  toward  the  blue  line 


THE  POND  HOUSE  71 

of  the  Chilterns  beyond  the  shining  pond  that  gave 
a  name  to  Pond  House;  Horace  beside  her  at  the 
long  table  under  the  rose  trees,  when  the  country 
meal  he  loved  was  laid  there  and  he  found  every- 
thing to  his  liking.  Crystal  disturbed  the  pleasant 
dream  to  wonder  if  the  Gorgonzola  would  be  just 
right.  Horace  was  a  bit  fussy  about  his  Gorgon- 
zola. 

The  rest  of  the  meal  (Crystal  knew  her  Mrs^ 
Rumbold)  would  be  perfect — the  cream  of  green 
peas,  the  tuna  bathed  in  mayonnaise  on  the  freshest 
lettuce  hearts;  the  smoking  hot  gammon,  with  new 
potatoes  and  their  own  grown  spinach ;  and  the  tall 
green  Capri  bottle  of  white  wine.  Then  that  Gor- 
gonzola and  the  hot  pulled  bread.  Last,  some  enor- 
mous hot  house  white  grapes  from  town.  And  cof- 
fee— not  the  Brazil  or  Central  America  Horace 
hated,  but  real  Mocha — and  his  cigarette;  Mrs. 
Rumbold  and  her  niece  Ada  carrying  the  light  table 
bodily  away,  the  children  safe  abed,  the  late  twilight 
lovely  in  the  sheltered  garden,  and  Horace  settling 
down  happily  in  his  chair  for  the  long  talk  that 
would  follow. 

If  Crystal's  vision  touched  on  sweeter  intimacies, 
she  did  not,  being  Crystal,  allow  it  to  linger  there. 
Nor  did  any  doubt  of  Horace  obtrude.  Had  they 
not  adored  each  other  all  these  years?  Were  there 
ever  letters  like  his,  tenderest,  frankest  of  all  letters 
— and  unfailing? 

She  did  speculate  a  little  wistfully  on  her  own 
power  to  hold  him,  her  extraordinarily  attractive, 
clever,  triumphant,  courted  Horace.  Her  own 


72        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

beauty  meant  little  to  Crystal — she  never  counted 
on  it,  yet  she  had  never,  being  Crystal,  denied  it 
was  there.  For  what  else  had  she  with  which  to 
charm  ?  She  was  not  amusing  like  Katty,  not  young 
like  Daphne,  not  bubbling  with  delicious  inconse- 
quences like  Aileen  Norton — but  she  had  been 
painted  and  drawn  and  photographed  too  often  not 
to  realise  that  her  type  must  be  out  of  the  common. 
And  her  children  were  too  lovely  not  to  have  de- 
rived from  at  least  one  handsome  parent.  Where- 
as "Alexander  McClinton,"  Katty  had  said  agree- 
ably, "was  as  handsome  as  a  hat  rack." 

Crystal  reproached  herself  for  even  remember- 
ing that  caustic  speech  of  Katty's.  He  had  been 
so  good  to  her,  her  Alexander,  so  erudite,  so  kind. 
He  was  past  forty  when  they  were  married.  She 
was  only  twenty — but  during  the  five  years  before 
the  first  baby  came — little  Dorothea,  who  had  died 
of  croup — how  wonderful  he  had  been !  How  much 
he  had  taught  her!  And  his  will  had  been  so  gen- 
erously, so  nobly  worded!  "To  my  beloved  wife, 
Crystal  Howard  McClinton,  to  mark  my  esteem  for 
her  fine  character,  and  my  acknowledgment  of  her 
devotion  to  myself,  I  hereby  leave  all  the  property 
of  which  I  may  die  possessed,  absolutely  without 
restriction  or  reserve,  knowing  she  will  provide  ade- 
quately for  our  children." 

The  Howard  girls  had  been  poor,  and  Crystal, 
with  a  passion  for  charity,  had  not  been  able  till 
her  widowhood  to  indulge  what  Katty  termed  the 
"dearest  of  her  vices,"  that  same  eagerness  to  give. 

And  now  the  comfort  of  her  life,  the  beautiful 


THE  POND  HOUSE  73 

house  in  Yonkers,  the  flat  in  London,  this  amusing 
cottage  in  Oxfordshire — all  these  were  Alexander's 
gift.  And  Bedelia  and  Bobby!  What  undeserved 
treasures  she  had  indeed  received!  And  in  return 
had  given  what?  Her  affection — a  very  tepid  af- 
fection (she  realised  now)  it  must  have  been;  and 
that  beauty  which  meant  nothing  to  her,  but  of 
which  Alexander  had  been  so  proud.  And  now  she 
had  given  that  beauty  to  Horace.  She  could  not 
even  remain  loyal  to  Alexander.  She  recalled 
Katty's  theory  that  the  truly  loyal  widow  transfers 
her  affection  to  a  new  recipient,  as  a  token  that 
wifely  devotion  had  proved  worth  while.  But 
Katty  was  Katty,  and  the  standards  by  which  she 
must  be  judged  were  not  those  for  Crystal. 

Her  daughter's  voice  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall  by  the  pond  brought  her  back  to  the  present. 
Finn  McCoul  was  evidently  being  made  to  swim 
for  his  soul's  sake.  Crystal  gave  thanks  mentally 
that  it  was  not  her  little  brother  Miss  McClinton 
was  trying  to  improve.  Bedelia  was  quite  capable 
of  ducking  both  Bobby  and  Mr.  Honey  when  other 
entertainment  failed. 

It  was  time  for  the  post  to  be  in,  and  Crystal 
rose  to  go  for  it,  and  incidentally  to  pass  the 
pond. 

"Pardon,  m'm,"  came  Mrs.  Rumbold's  fruity 
voice,  "but  it  is  spinach  for  dinner?" 

"Gammon  and  spinach,"  smiled  Crystal  (Horace 
would  appreciate  that  old  English  combination). 

"The  gentlemen  likes  spinach."  Mrs.  Rumbold 
obviously  approved.  "I  always  says,  m'm,  if  you'll 


74        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

excuse  the  liberty,  that  be  the  true  way  to  tell  the 
gentry,  by  spinach.  Common  folk,  they  don't  like 
it — too  much  trouble,  spinach  be,  m'm.  But  your 
real  gentlefolk,  they  all  eats  it — and  what's  better, 
I  says — squeezed"  (Mrs.  Rumbold's  eyes  closed  in 
ecstacy),  "squeezed,  and  drop  o'  lemon  juice,  and 
cream.  When  I  was  cook  to  the  Big  House,  his 
lordship  did  always  say,  give  him  Mrs.  Rumbold 
and  spinach,  and  other  nations  could  eat  angels — 
like  that  he  said  it,  his  lordship  bein',  you  might 
say,  affable." 

"I'm  sure  Mr.  Dimock  will  be  proud  to  know  he 
can  pass  the  test,"  said  her  mistress. 

Mrs.  Rumbold  turned  blandly  toward  the  kitchen 
garden  to  cut  her  spinach,  and  Crystal,  protected  by 
a  parasol  of  apple  green  silk,  like  a  beautiful  green 
leaf  in  that  golden  sunshine,  walked  slowly  out 
of  her  shady  garden  into  the  warm  road.  At  the 
corner  of  the  old  wall  she  saw  her  little  daughter's 
slim,  straight  figure  on  a  stone,  well  out  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  pond.  Finn  McCoul  at  a  safe  distance 
on  the  bank  opposite  was  evidently  declining  to  swim 
longer.  Crystal  smiled  at  the  two,  and  child  and 
dog  promptly  leaped  to  shore,  to  accompany  her. 

The  village  had  but  one  street.  "Do  you  know 
its  name,  Bedelia?" 

"Yes,  Mummie.  'Road  whar  be  post  office/  " 
said  Bedelia,  in  an  appalling  Oxfordshire  accent. 

"And  our  lane  is  called  'Cheesefoot' — and  you 
know  the  path  across  the  fields  to  our  other  village  ? 
That's  Bittums.  'Ar  coom  along,  Bittums/  that's 
the  way  to  say  it,  Mummie." 


THE  POND  HOUSE  75 

Crystal  turned  into  "road  whar  be  post  office," 
charmed  afresh  with  the  settled  peace  and  solidity 
of  an  English  village.  There  were  not  more  than 
a  dozen  houses  in  sight,  but  everyone  had  its  tiny 
flower  garden  in  front,  and  its  thriving  vegetable 
patch  in  the  rear.  A  few  fine  elms  gave  frequent 
shady  spaces.  In  the  near  distance  the  crooked 
road  joined  the  highway.  But  even  on  the  further 
side  of  that,  as  indeed  on  both  sides  of  the  village 
street,  were  the  rolling  fertile  fields. 

One  of  Farmer  Giles'  big  lumbering  wagons 
creaked  down  the  road. 

"It's  the  first  mangel  wurzels,"  shrieked  Bedelia. 
"O  Mummie,  may  I  ride  down  to  help  Mo  unload? 
It's  Mo  Garlick — a  friend  of  mine!" 

Mo  Garlick  grinned  sheepishly  as  he  touched  his 
cap. 

"If  you'll  be  sure  to  come  back  at  once,"  Crystal 
hesitated. 

"Mo  will  bring  me.     Please,  Mummie!" 

"Ar  be  coomin'  back  for  dinner,"  announced  Mo, 
so  Bedelia  scrambled  up,  drawing  Finn  McCoul 
with  her. 

Crystal  went  on  her  way,  smiling.  Bedelia  was 
a  born  farmer.  And  these  farm  hands,  on  the  same 
soil  immemorially,  were  as  gentle  and  honest  as 
their  own  Oxford  country. 

The  post  office  was  the  fourth  house  on  your 
right.  When  you  opened  the  door,  a  bell  should 
have  rung  to  notify  Miss  Laminda,  who  was  deaf. 
But  Miss  Laminda  Sallum  "didn't  hold  with  no 
such  shop  ways,"  and  you  generally  called  "O  Miss 


76        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Sallum!"  or  if  you  were  friendly,  "O  Miss  La- 
minda!" and  the  little  old,  old  postmistress  ap- 
peared. Farmer  Giles  swore  his  grandfather  had 
courted  her,  which  would  make  her  close  on  to  a 
hundred.  But  being,  except  for  her  deafness,  as 
spry  as  a  girl,  this  was  hard  to  believe.  Besides, 
she  was  almost  coquettish  with  old  Shepherd  Gam- 
mon, who  was  only  seventy-five,  and  had  been  heard 
to  call  her  Laminda. 

Her  family  was  the  oldest  in  the  village,  which 
was  indeed  called  Sallum  Prior — an  old  and  prob- 
ably once  distinguished  name.  The  other  surnames 
in  the  neighbourhood  were  Honey,  Garlick,  Gam- 
mon, Woodly,  and  the  like — all  practical.  But 
Miss  Laminda  Sallum  had  an  old  book  in  which  one 
John  Sallum  figured  as  having  written  a  poem  to 
Queen  Mary  of  sanguinary  memory.  And  this  in- 
clined Miss  Laminda  to  a  softness  of  judgment 
where  Roman  Catholics  were  concerned,  a  softness 
not  characteristic  of  the  rest  of  the  village.  Added 
to  this  reason  for  tolerance,  was  the  fact  that  she 
had  once  spent  a  week  in  London;  and  when  she 
was  a  girl,  six  whole  months  in  a  neighbouring  vil- 
lage. This  gave  her  a  travelled  feeling,  and  in  con- 
junction with  her  breadth  of  religious  outlook,  made 
her  especially  interested  in  the  new  American  family 
who  had  taken  Pond  House — as  something  foreign, 
and  not  easily  understood  by  the  villagers. 

When  Crystal's  tall  white  figure  appeared  in  the 
tiny  room  that  was  both  office  and  "settin'  room," 
Miss  Laminda  entered  at  once.  It  was  a  warm  after- 
noon, but  the  little  knitted  cap,  with  streamers,  also 


THE  POND  HOUSE  77 

knitted,  which  she  always  wore,  framed  her  little 
wrinkled  rosy  face.  When  Miss  Laminda  was  feel- 
ing "fair  bouncey"  the  cap  was  pink,  but  when  she1 
was  "middlin,"  it  was  blue;  or  when  things  went 
wrong,  when  Mo  Garlick  didn't  dig  her  potatoes, 
or  she  was  tuppence  short  in  her  stamp  accounts. 

But  it  was  pink  today,  and  Crystal  smiled  down 
on  her.  When  it  was  blue,  you  must  look  sympa- 
thetic. 

The  McClintons  had  been  here  not  yet  a  week,  but 
"Trust  Crystal,"  Katty  would  say,  "to  know  the 
first  tooth  and  the  last  wish  of  every  soul  in  the 
village  in  three  days." 

Miss  Laminda  began  at  once.  "Fancy,  Madame, 
Thyrza  Gammon  walked  all  the  way  over  Bittums 
to  tell  me  you  was  all  right.  As  if  I  didn't  know  it !" 

"All  right?"  queried  Crystal  vaguely. 

"  'Twas  her  notion.  Not  that  Thyrza  isn't  a  good 
kind  soul.  I  knowed  her  grandmother,  a  good 
grandmother  and  mother  she  was,  but  notiony,  too. 
Thyrza  had  the  notion,  as  you  was  a-comin*  here 
to  live,  she'd  like  to  let  me  know  it  be  all  right,  and 
be  good  for  Sallum  Prior." 

"You  mean  I  would  be  sure  to  pay  my  bills?" 
said  Crystal  in  her  distinct  voice,  smiling. 

Miss  Laminda  deprecated  the  bluntness  of  this, 
but  admitted  that  it  was  something  like  it. 

"That  was  very  kind  of  Thyrza  Gammon,"  said 
Crystal,  touched  and  pleased.  "You  see  you  really 
didn't  know  us,  Miss  Laminda,  and  Thyrza  washed 
for  us  all  last  summer  when  we  were  in  the  other 
village." 


78        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"But  Shepherd,  as  be  Thyrza's  father-in-law, 
Shepherd  told  us  many  a  time  about  'yon  American 
lady' — bein'  that  pleased,  beggin'  your  pardon,  that 
'twas  fair  easy  to  understand  your  talk,  after  the 
first.  But  Thyrza " 

"Isn't  Thyrza  a  very  busy  woman?" 

"All  the  Gammonses  be  busy.  'Twas  so  when  I 
was  young.  'Tis  so  now.  There  be  a  sayin'  over 
Bittums  to  this  day  'Godly  as  a  Gammon'." 

"Shepherd  is  the  only  one  I  really  know,"  said 
Crystal,  "and  he  is  certainly  one  of  the  best." 

"Ah,  there  do  be  not  so  many  like  Shepherd, 
you're  right,  Madame.  The  Gammonses  be  the  salt 
of  Oxfordshire.  But  like  salt,  they  melts  away, 
if  so  be  you  understands  me.  Time  was  when  you'd 
not  walk  across  Bittums  without  seein'  a  Gammon 
at  work  some'ere — but  death  has  broke  out  in  that 
family." 

Miss  Laminda  paused  and  Crystal  nearly  kissed 
her. 

"Dear  Miss  Laminda,  you're  wonderful.  'Death 
has  broke  out  in  that  family !' ' 

The  little  postmistress  heard  only  the  "dear  Miss 
Laminda."  "Thank  ee,  mum.  Is  it  stamps  or 
post  cards?" 

"Post  cards,  please,  a  shilling  packet.  And  my 
letters,  if  the  post  is  in." 

"It  be  a  great  thing  for  Sallum  Priory"  approved 
Miss  Laminda,  sorting  them  out.  "A  heap  o'  letters 
like  yon,"  and  having  handed  over  letters  and  papers, 
accompanied  her  visitor  to  the  door  to  hold  it  open 
for  her. 


THE  POND  HOUSE  79 

Crystal  walked  slowly  back  to  the  Pond  House, 
in  her  clear  green  silk  shadow.  Not  a  soul  seemed 
to  be  abroad,  and  she  pictured  the  villagers  at  their 
midday  meal,  in  the  various  little  houses.  Here 
was  Munday's,  running  over  with  children.  Next 
door  poor  pathetic  Elizabeth  Woodly,  with  one 
drunken  son,  and  one  who  was  in  the  constabulary 
and  a  comfort  to  her.  The  corner  house  was  occu- 
pied by  old  Miss  Fitches  and  her  two  bachelor 
brothers.  All  these  men  before  the  war  had  made 
only  sixteen  shillings  a  week,  if  indeed,  they  made 
more  than  fourteen.  She  had  heard  of  but  one  who 
got  eighteen,  a  gardener,  at  the  Big  House.  What 
did  they  do  on  that  meagre  pittance?  What  did 
they  do  now  even  on  the  thirty  shillings  she  heard 
they  got  ?  Thirty  shillings  wasn't  even  seven  dollars 
a  week. 

What  were  they  all  having  for  dinner?  What 
could  they  do  on  seven  dollars  for  a  family  like  the 
Mundays  for  instance  .  .  .  five  small  children  and 
the  old  sister  who  lived  with  them  ?  In  the  old  days, 
yes.  Tea  had  been  a  shilling  a  pound,  now  it  was 
two  shillings.  Bread  had  been,  as  everywhere  in 
England,  less  than  a  third  what  it  was  at  home. 
Even  now  it  did  not  cost  half  what  Americans  paid. 
And  the  little  vegetable  patches  played  a  large  part. 
There  were  no  better  potatoes  anywhere  than 
Oxfordshire  potatoes  .  .  .  milk  of  course  was 
dear  .  .  .  for  Oxfordshire  .  .  .  and  it  used  to  cost 
only  two  pence,  four  cents !  a  quart !  She  wondered 
about  meat.  Every  family  she  knew  had  it  on 
Sunday,  at  any  rate.  On  other  days,  kippers  .  .  . 


8o       .WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

even  those  had  increased  from  a  penny  apiece  to 
three  pence.  Eggs  that  in  pre-war  days  had  been  in 
certain  months  eighteen  a  shilling  were  now  three  a 
shilling.  .  .  . 

But  it  all  remained  a  miracle.  How  did  they 
manage  ? 

Her  own  meal,  which  was  the  children's  and  the 
servants'  dinner,  already  laid  outside  under  the  rose 
canopy,  looked  selfishly  abundant.  Pretty  Ada  and 
Ivy,  the  one,  housemaid,  the  other,  nursemaid,  were 
putting  the  last  touches  to  the  table  and  giggling  as 
they  did  so. 

"Where  are  the  children?"  asked  Crystal. 

"Please,  m'm,  Master  Bobby  ee  won't  come  down. 
Says  ee's  a  tree  toad."  Fresh  giggles,  and  a 
superior  snort  from  the  tree  above  made  Crystal 
look  up.  There  roosted  her  only  son,  and  his  friend 
Mr.  Honey. 

"Come  down,  Bobby,"  said  his  mother.  "You'll 
be  late,  and  you  know  it's  a  penny  fine." 

"But  I  must  ask  somefin'  partic'lar,  Mummie," 
came  the  stage  whisper,  "if  Ada  and  Ivy  will  go 
away." 

The  little  maids  fled,  still  giggling,  and  Bobby, 
in  hoarse  accents,  as  one  to  be  heard  only  by  a  special 
listener,  asked  if  Mr.  Honey  might  stay  for 
luncheon? 

"It's  dinner,  weally,"  he  explained  to  Mr.  Honey, 
who  was  acting  up  to  the  assigned  role  of  not  hear- 
ing the  request,  and  who  now  twisted  awkwardly  on 
his  uncertain  seat. 


THE  POND  HOUSE  81 

"Yes,"  said  Crystal,  "I  really  prefer  it  today." 
(There  was  a  compact  by  which  Mr.  Honey's  invi- 
tations were  limited  to  one  in  three  days).  "But 
you'll  have  to  hurry,  for  if  you're  both  late  you'll 
have  to  pay  Mr.  Honey's  fine  too." 

"Hooway!"  came  Bobby's  cheerful  voice,  as  his 
fat  legs  could  be  seen  scrambling  down  the  tree, 
and  he  and  Mr.  Honey  dashed  around  a  corner  of 
the  house  toward  "Washing  up"  quarters.  Bedelia 
appeared  at  the  same  moment,  and  taking  in  the 
situation,  announced  that  if  Bobby  was  to  have  Mr. 
Honey  out  of  turn  for  a  meal,  it  was  only  fair  for 
her  to  have  Finn  McCoul. 

Her  mother  peacefully  agreed,  except  for  the  re- 
minder that  there'd  be  a  penny  fine  if  she  wasn't 
back  in  two  minutes,  and  Miss  McClinton  and  the 
joyful  Finn  McCoul  scuttled  down  the  path  after 
the  small  boys. 

Mrs.  Rumbold  herself  always  brought  in  the  soup 
with  much  ceremony,  while  Ada  and  Ivy  demurely 
held  the  chairs  ready.  Mrs.  Rumbold  did  not  ap- 
prove of  the  villagers'  sharing  in  so  important  a 
function  as  a  meal  prepared  by  herself  for  "the 
fam'ly,"  but  only  added  dignity  signified  her  dis- 
approval. 

The  children  and  the  fox  terrier  appeared  just  as 
the  soup  was  set  firmly  on  the  table.  Bobby,  who 
was  punctilious  to  a  degree,  explained  that  while 
Mr.  Honey  ought  by  rights  to  sit  next  Mummie, 
he  would  perhaps  have  a  better  view  of  what  was 
coming  if  he  sat  beyond  him,  Bobby. 

"You  mean  that  Mummie  won't  care  to  hear  Mr. 


82        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Honey  sloop  his  soup,"  came  tartly  from  Miss  Mc- 
Clinton,  who  was  assisting  Finn  McCoul  into  the 
chair  next  hers. 

"Mummie!"  protested  Bobby,  in  horrified  tones. 

"You  do  sloop,  don't  you,  Mr.  Honey?"  enquired 
Bedelia  moderately. 

"Yeh,"  said  Mr.  Honey,  whose  conversation  was 
limited. 

"But  Finn  McCoul  is  sloopier,  isn't  he,  Weelum 
Jawge?"  asked  Bobby  eagerly. 

"Yeh,"  said  Mr.  Honey  again. 

"Mummie,  which  would  you  ruwer  listen  to,  Finn 
McCoul  or  Mr.  Honey?" 

"At  real  luncheon  parties,"  said  his  mother,  judi- 
cially, "one  doesn't  talk  of  physical  difficulties." 

"You  see,  B'delia,  Mummie  means  it's  wude. 
Doesn't  she,  Weelum  Jawge?" 

"Yeh,"  said  Mr.  Honey. 

Fortunately  the  soup  had  now  been  passed  to  all, 
including  Finn  McCoul.  Mrs.  Rumbold  majesti- 
cally withdrew,  and  even  Bedelia  was  too  hungry  to 
observe  the  ecstatic  anguish  of  Mr.  Honey  as  he 
wrestled  with  his  meal. 

Crystal  herself  sat  through  the  lively  half -hour 
as  one  many  miles  away.  All  this  was  but  a  pre- 
lude— the  true  theme  to  follow. 

"This  green  garden,  this  lovely  silence,"  she  said 
to  herself,  walking  away  when  the  children  were 
busy  with  their  pudding,  and  Bedelia,  softened  per- 
haps by  repletion,  was  telling  the  others  an  absorbing 
story  of  wild  animals  and  a  poor  plough  boy. 


THE  POND  HOUSE  83 

"This  green  garden,  this  lovely  silence, 

These  shady  places  made  for  love  and  you, 
I  shall  remember,  I  shall  remember, 

As  all  that  Life  has  proven  fair  and  true." 

Horace  had  written  that  for  her,  and  having  a 
nice  sense  of  not  too  serious  music,  had  set  it  to  a 
pretty  air.  She  had  often  played  and  sung  it  to 
herself  softly — and  now  it  ran  delightfully  through 
her  mind.  She  passed  under  the  dark  cool  shadow 
of  the  cypress  grove  that  divided  the  garden  from 
the  orchard,  and  so  out  into  the  sun  and  sweetness 
of  the  apple  trees. 

"This  green  garden,  this  lovely  silence, 

And  shining  on  my  heart  your  tender  eyes, 
I  shall  remember,  I  shall  remember 
Across  the  seas  and  under  other  skies." 

She  wished  that  she  had  not  at  the  same  moment 
recalled  an  unkind  criticism  in  a  flippant  New  York 
paper  (for  of  course  Horace  had  allowed  this,  and 
some  other  verses,  to  be  published)  ; 

"We  would  advise  the  author  to  put  some  of  the 
energy  of  his  'remembering'  into  forgetting  his 
ambition  to  write  poetry." 

That  other  green  garden  was  her  more  preten- 
tious one  in  Yonkers — whither  Horace  had  followed 
her  the  year  after  that  summer  in  Wicklow.  Poor 
Alpha  was  still  alive,  although  they  had  been 
divorced  in  1912,  months  before  the  wonderful 
Wicklow  days.  It  was  Alpha  that  Horace  meant  of 
course,  when  he  went  on, 


84        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"This  green  garden,  this  lovely  silence, 

My  shelter  might  it  ever,  ever  be!  .   .   . 
But  I  alas,  I  must  remember 

The  cruel  ghost  that  still  will  follow  me." 

Crystal,  kindest  of  women,  was  capable  of  real 
anger  against  Alpha  that  she  had  caused  Horace 
such  suffering.  His  first  plea  to  herself  had  been  to 
help  him  forget  his  unhappy  married  life,  to  con- 
vince him  that  all  women  were  not  hard  and  in- 
tolerant. Crystal  had  been  a  little  shocked  by  this 
love  making  so  soon  after  her  Alexander's  demise, 
and  with  Horace's  wife  still  living,  although  they 
were  divorced.  But  that  was  all  swept  away  in  the 
high  tide  of  the  wonderful  devotion  offered  her. 
She  was  then  thirty-six,  and  although  she  did  not 
know  it,  hungry  for  love.  Horace  knew  it — his 
understanding  of  women,  he  had  told  her,  was 
psychologically  sound.  Crystal  had  not  asked  him, 
as  Katty  would  have  done  in  her  place,  how  many 
women  he  had  made  a  study  of,  to  have  acquired 
this  wisdom. 

"O  green  garden,  O  lovely  silence, 

When  I  am  far  beyond  your  leafy  span, 
Let  me  remember,  let  me  remember, 

That  once  walked  here  a  blithe  contented  man." 

That  was  what  she  had  done  for  him,  she  and 
her  green  garden,  in  exchange  for  the  astounding 
gift  of  love.  She  had  made  him  a  "blithe  contented 
man" — that  restless  moody  Horace.  Was  it  a 
wonder,  with  his  enormous  responsibilities,  his  lack 
of  a  settled  home,  that  he  should  be  moody? 


THE  POND  HOUSE  85 

And  now — Crystal  looked  over  the  jasmine 
covered  wall  to  the  Chilterns — over  the  warm 
Oxfordshire  fields — now  all  that  restlessness  and 
moodiness  would  end.  He  should  have  a  real  home 
at  last.  They  would  let  the  world  know  their  secret ; 
the  children  would  be  so  much  the  better  for  a  man 
in  the  house.  She  didn't  know  whether  Horace 
really  cared  much  for  children,  but  Bedelia  and 
Bobby  should  never  bother  him.  Her  mind  touched 
on  the  practical  difficulties  in  the  way,  but  glanced 
off  happily  again.  Nothing  was  impossible  in  the 
face  of  a  great  love  like  theirs. 

"O  green  garden,  O  lovely  silence,"  sang  Crystal 
happily,  looking  from  the  end  of  the  long  box- 
bordered  centre  path  in  the  old  orchard.  The  roofs 
of  house,  out-houses,  stable  and  summer  kitchen 
grouped,  like  a  little  village  in  themselves,  at  the 
other  side  of  the  garden.  Over  them  the  tall  trees, 
beyond  them  the  June  sky.  Near  her  feet  every- 
thing green  and  growing  and  blossoming.  Every- 
where the  ancient  plum  and  apple  trees,  laden  with 
fruit,  still  unripe,  but  thickly  clustered — a  little 
Earthly  Paradise,  Crystal  thought;  humbly,  pro- 
foundly grateful  for  the  beauty  without,  and  the 
happiness  within. 


CHAPTER  VI 
HORACE'S  ARRIVAL 

As  Crystal,  all  fresh  white  to  her  shoes,  and 
sheltered  by  the  apple  green  parasol,  turned  out  of 
"Cheese foot,"  the  Pond  House  lane,  into  the  High 
Road  for  her  walk  to  the  market  town  where  she  was 
to  meet  Horace  on  the  early  afternoon  train,  she 
became  aware  of  some  excitement  behind  the  elder 
bushes.  On  her  right,  near  the  corner  was  Sel- 
wood's  pig  yard,  screened  from  the  road  by  the  tall 
elders,  and  fortunately  not  odorous  except  when 
the  wind  blew  from  the  north. 

Against  the  fence  of  the  pig  yard  leaned  Mr. 
Honey  wearily,  as  one  to  whom  pigs  were  an  ancient 
story.  Mary  Meteyard,  who  lived  with  Miss 
Laminda,  and  was  quite  as  aged,  if  not  so  active, 
had  paused  on  her  way  to  the  farm  to  chuckle  at  the 
entertainment.  Bedelia,  obviously  in  charge,  was 
perched  on  one  tall  gate  post,  brandishing  a  long 
stripped  stick  from  the  elder  tree.  Finn  McCoul 
maintained  a  perilous  footing  on  the  other  post. 

"Hi,  Bobby,  go  it,  old  sport !  Wake  up,  Daffo- 
dil! Get  a  move  on,  you  two!  Good  old  Bobby!" 
and  much  more  in  Miss  McClinton's  vibrant  tones. 

In  the  ring,  so  to  speak  .  .  .  more  literally,  in 
the  mud,  the  thick  black  oozy  mud  of  a  happy  pigsty, 

86 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  87 

Crystal  beheld  her  youngest  on  the  unattractive  back 
of  a  large  indignant  sow. 

"Good  old  bacon !"  shrilled  Bobby's  vociferous  en- 
couragement, as,  with  another  elder  branch,  he 
prodded  his  steed  forward. 

"Get  up,  Daffodil,  get  up  I  say!  Make  her  get 
up,  B'delia!" 

Bedelia,  in  response,  leaned  fonvard  as  the  rider 
came  near,  launched  a  stinging  whack  at  Daffodil's 
hind  quarters,  and,  over  balancing,  fell  plump  into 
the  unspeakable  mire.  The  surprise  was  too  much 
for  Bobby,  who  appeared  to  shoot  violently  from 
Daffodil's  back  into  a  sitting  position  by  the  mud- 
covered  Bedelia,  and  for  Finn  McCoul,  who  leaped 
down,  barking  violently. 

"A  sight  for  any  mother!"  said  Crystal,  trying  not 
to  laugh,  as,  holding  her  white  skirts  carefully  from 
the  fence,  she  looked  down  into  the  smudged  coun- 
tenances of  her  young. 

"Mummie!  Did  you  see  the  circus?"  enquired 
Bedelia,  uncomfortable  but  rapturous.  "Quiet, 
Finn  McCoul!" 

"I  certainly  did.  And  I  now  see  the  dirtiest  little 
clowns  of  my  experience.  Mr.  Honey,  will  you  run 
up  to  the  Pond  House  and  ask  Ivy  and  Ada  to 
come  here  at  once?" 

"Yeh!"  said  Mr.  Honey,  disappearing. 

"And  the  two  of  you — I  can't  call  you  children — 
you  mud  chickens,  climb  over  the  fence  very  care- 
fully, and  don't  shake  any  mud  on  to  Mrs.  Meteyard, 
or  your  parent.  Leave  Finn  McCoul  there  until  I 
get  away." 


88        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"Good-bye  for  today,  Daffodil!"  said  Bedelia, 
cheerfully,  drawing  herself  out  of  the  wallow. 

"Good-bye,  old  bacon!"  added  Bobby.  "Mummie, 
isn't  Daffodil  a  sweet  name?  B'delia  named  it  to 
her." 

"I  wish  it  were  all  as  sweet  as  the  name,"  said  his 
mother,  holding  a  handkerchief  to  her  nose. 
"Didn't  your  programme  disturb  the  little  Daffo- 
dils?" 

The  little  Daffodils  appeared  to  number  nine  as 
they  could  be  observed  struggling  for  their  mother's 
attention. 

"Only  one  is  Daffodil,"  Bedelia  found  time  to  say, 
as  she  wiped  her  dripping  hands  on  the  one  clean 
place  left  to  her  frock.  "We're  going  to  name  them 
all  after  flowers — all  Daffodil's  children." 

"My  own  daffodils  seem  to  need  a  mother  too," 
reflected  Crystal,  "but  they  must  put  up  with  Ada 
and  Ivy.  Careful,  there!"  withdrawing  hastily  to 
the  other  side  of  the  road,  followed  by  Mary  Mete- 
yard,  as  the  mud  covered  angels  swarmed  over  the 
fence.  "The  rural  life  is  all  very  well,  but  I  am  on 
my  way  to  meet  Uncle  Horace — and  must  keep  my 
pretty  frock  clean." 

"Oh,  Mummie,  may  we  go  with  you?"  shrieked 
both  angels  in  unison. 

"You  may  not !"  returned  Mummie,  firmly.  "And 
here  are  the  little  maids.  Ada,  dash  home  and  put 
out  two  tubs  in  the  wash  house.  See  that  there  is 
plenty  of  hot  water,  and  bring  down  half  a  dozen 
old  towels."  Ada  sped  away. 

"Ivy,"  Mrs.  McClinton  continued,  "yon  go  home 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  89 

with  the  children.  Make  sure  they  do  not  touch 
anything  or  anybody  on  the  way,  and  get  them  into 
the  tubs  as  soon  as  you  can.  Afterwards,  throw 
all  their  clothes,  even  their  shoes,  into  clean  water." 

"Yes,  m'm,"  said  Ivy  piously,  but  as  the  lively  if 
deplorable  procession  moved  off,  was  heard  to  en- 
quire of  the  encrusted  Bobby  "if  so  be  ee  war  a  tree 
toad  now  or  whatever  ?" 

Mary  Meteyard  had  gone  on  toward  the  farm, 
chuckling,  but  Mr.  Honey  still  lingered. 

"There  is  no  limit  to  the  ingenuity  of  the  infant 
mind,  is  there,  Mr.  Honey?" 

"Yeh,"  said  Mr.  Honey. 

"You  don't  agree?  Well,  suppose  then,  when  I 
am  out  of  sight,  you  open  the  gate  for  Finn  McCoul, 
go  up  to  the  Pond  House  and  stay  in  the  front,  you 
understand,  not  anywhere  near  the  washhouse. 
You'll  find  a  book  of  Bobby's  on  the  long  chair." 

"Yeh,"  said  Mr.  Honey,  taking  off  his  hat  with 
painful  care,  as  Bobby  had  advised  in  dealings  with 
Mummie. 

"Good-bye,  then.  Remember!  And  Mr.  Honey, 
if  you  do  exactly  as  I  ask,  you  may  stay  to  tea  with 
Bobby." 

"Yeh!"  said  Mr.  Honey,  almost  smiling,  and 
Crystal  departed. 

The  road  to  the  station  ran  parallel  to  the  Chil- 
terns,  with  broad  rolling  acres  in  between.  Sallum 
Prior  was  one  of  a  hundred  such  villages — a  few 
old  houses,  a  church,  probably  a  manor — "the  Big 
House."  You  could  pass  a  dozen  larger  than 
Sallum  and  never  see  them  from  the  High  Road. 


90        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Miles  to  the  west  lay  Oxford;  half  as  many  to  the 
south,  the  silvery  Thames.  And  always  to  the  east 
(the  blue  Chiltern  Hills. 

Oxfordshire  is  eternally  lovely.  To  those  with  a 
special  affection  for  that  county,  it  seems  lovelier 
than  the  others.  To  an  American  it  is,  more  than 
any  other,  the  heart  of  England.  The  people  in 
the  less  known  villages  have  perhaps  changed  little 
since  Elizabethan  days.  Crystal  thought  of  old 
Shepherd  Gammon,  who  could  neither  read  nor 
write,  yet  who  presented  so  forcibly,  so  downright 
a  personality,  that  she  liked  to  think  him  the  un- 
altered English  type  that  had  lived  in  those  mid- 
lands when  Shakespeare  did. 

To  the  American  eye,  fresh  from  the  overcrowded 
sensation  New  York,  even  Connecticut,  and  the 
other  Eastern  states  must  give,  these  unoccupied 
spaces  between  the  Oxfordshire  villages — the  end- 
less succession  of  fields,  under  cultivation  or  lying 
fallow — the  always  uninterrupted  marvellous  dis- 
tances— all  these  are  astonishing.  Why  should  we, 
practically  an  empty  country  in  comparison  with 
overpeopled  England,  why  should  we  never  escape 
the  vigilant  and  usually  unbeautiful  regard  of  the 
endlessly  repeated  house  by  the  roadside?  In 
England,  houses  cluster — in  America  they  straggle 
— they  never  come  to  an  end — till  indeed  you  reach 
the  prairie. 

The  road  from  Sallum  Prior  passed  only  one 
house  after  it  left  the  farm  which  marked  the  end 
of  the  village.  Reaching  the  top  of  Chaff  Hill, 
highest  point  on  the  road,  Crystal  stood  a  moment 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  91 

to  look  all  ways  over  the  midsummer  landscape. 
Behind  her  Sallum  Prior  was  hidden  under  its  giant 
trees.  On  both  sides  of  the  road,  unending  fields  of 
grain  and  hay — still  green,  though  where  the  hay 
was  cut,  the  little  cocks  looked  like  yellow  cushions 
on  a  green  floor.  Always  the  blue  Chilterns,  always 
the  stately  elms ! 

Walking  on,  she  soon  had  her  dear  afternoon 
picture  of  the  market  town,  in  the  golden  sunshine — 
red  brown  roofs  under  dark  green  trees.  The 
Chilterns  came  to  an  end  here,  and  the  background 
of  the  little  town  was  softly  rolling  country,  green, 
mauve  and  yellow  meadows.  Across  that  country 
Horace's  train  was  bringing  him  ever  nearer.  The 
Dimocks,  Dymoke,  wasn't  it?  came  from  the  south- 
west of  England,  she  had  heard  him  say — not  like 
her  forbears,  from  midland  towns,  so  he  would  not 
have  the  feeling  for  Oxfordshire  that  she  had. 
When  she  had  arrived  the  year  before  in  the  other 
village,  at  the  edge  of  Chalgrove  Field,  had  passed 
that  monument  to  Hampden,  so  near  where  he  had 
fallen,  great  man  and  patriot !  all  her  Puritan  blood 
had  danced  in  her  veins.  Katty  said  her  Irish  blood 
did  that  when  they  walked  by  the  Blackwater  in 
Kerry — how  was  that  possible  when  the  Irish  strain 
in  them  was  so  remote,  so  tiny  in  comparison  with 
that  fierce  Puritanism  that  had  first  taken  them  as  a 
family  to  America? 

She  had  reached  the  little  town  now,  and  walked 
contentedly  under  the  tall  trees  past  the  old  squat 
houses.  At  the  Royal  George,  under  the  covered 


92        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

primitive  carriage  way,  she  found  "Dicky  the 
Driver"  washing  the  wheels  of  the  ancient  fly. 

"Will  you  harness  up,  Dicky,  and  follow  me  to 
the  station?  I  am  expecting  a  friend,  and  would 
like  the  fly  to  take  us  out  to  the  Pond  House." 

Dicky  the  Driver  grinned  a  cheery  assent  and 
touched  his  forelock.  "Ar'll  be  coomin'  afor  ever 
you  reaches  station,  m'm." 

There  was  only  one  fly  in  the  town.  To  be  sure, 
there  was  the  "trap,"  and  a  decayed  dogcart ;  and 
a  lumbering  bus  met  most  of  the  trains — but  the  fly, 
if  old,  was  comfortable,  and  Crystal  half  hoped  the 
rumour  of  a  rival  motor  service  to  be  established  was 
rumour  only.  She  reflected  whimsically,  as  she  left 
the  Royal  George  to  walk  toward  the  station,  that 
what  would  not  be  tolerated  a  moment  in  the  smallest 
town  in  America,  was  here  not  only  tolerated,  by 
those  same  Americans  who  would  have  made  a  fuss 
at  home,  but  kept  and  cherished. 

Crystal  walked  out  of  the  town,  and  toward  the 
station. 

When  you  left  a  town  in  Oxfordshire,  you  left  it. 
The  station  in  this  particular  town  had  been  placed 
a  half  mile  from  the  last  house,  and  you  walked  at 
once  and  a  long  way  between  fields  and  orchards. 
Dicky  overtook  her  just  as  she  turned  in  at  the 
station  yard,  a  transformed  Dicky,  with  his  hat 
rakishly  askew  and  a  large  red  flower  in  his  button- 
hole. The  funny  little  branch  train  drew  in  almost 
as  soon,  and  Crystal  saw  Horace's  dark  blue  figure 
and  straw  hat  as  he  stepped  eagerly  to  the  platform. 

They  had  not  seen  each  other  for  two  years,  and, 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  93 

as  always  after  absence,  there  is,  even  between 
intimates,  a  curious  sense  of  strangeness,  so  now 
Crystal  felt  infinitely  far  away.  They  shook  hands, 
mindful  of  observation,  and  she  felt  her  friend's 
appreciative  but  critical  eyes  studying  her  face. 

"Be  yon  all  the  luggage,  m'm?"  came  from  a 
beaming  Dicky  the  Driver,  as  he  took  Horace's  bag, 
and  Crystal  asked  what  other  things  Mr.  Dimock 
had,  in  that  coldly  polite  voice  one  uses  on  such 
occasions,  and  translated  his  "One  trunk,  one  suit- 
case, one  hat  box,  all  with  my  initial,"  into  "One 
box,  Dicky,  and  two  small  pieces,  all  marked  with  a 
D,"  and  led  the  way  to  the  ancient  fly. 

She  was  quite  as  tall  as  her  companion,  and  al- 
though this  vexed  him  a  little  as  it  always  had,  he 
noted  with  the  old  pleasure  her  quiet  easy  walk,  the 
lovely  profile,  the  unaltered  rosy  colour  in  the  pure 
line  of  the  cheek.  He  liked  her  being  always  in 
white,  approved  the  gracious  curves  of  the  big  white 
hat,  shading  the  grey  eyes,  smiled  at  the  brown  ten- 
drils of  soft  hair,  and  at  the  long  fine  neck. 

Dicky  the  Driver  soon  had  the  luggage  piled  be- 
side him  on  the  fly,  and  Horace,  who  had  been  wait- 
ing at  the  open  door  looking  in  at  his  handsome 
friend,  drew  a  long  breath  of  pleasure  as  he  also 
entered. 

"Jove,  it's  a  stunning  place  to  come  to,  your 
Oxfordshire!"  and  in  a  lower  tone,  "How  soon  may 
I  kiss  you?" 

The  quick  colour  suffused  Crystal's  face.  "Not 
for  hours,"  she  smiled  back.  "You  are  now  the 
observed  of  Oxfordshire,  and  must  live  up  to  it." 


94        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

He  had  his  hand  on  hers  under  her  lacy  scarf. 
"It's  like  a  flower,"  he  said,  "after  you've  been 
holding-  a  stick  or  a  pump  handle.  I've  been  holding 
pump  handles  for  two  years,  Crystal,  and  now  to 
come  home  to  you!  It  make  a  man  feel  pretty 
small  to  think  all  this  is  for  him !" 

"Poor  boy — you  deserve  something.  What  a 
hard  two  years  it  has  been!" 

"Don't  speak  of  it — your  letters  were  all  that 
made  it  bearable.  But  it's  been  a  huge  success, 
Bovo  has.  You're  riding  with  one  of  'our  most 
distinguished  citizens,'  Madame!" 

"In  this  unworthy  fly,  too!"  laughed  Crystal. 
"You  came  earlier  than  you  planned?" 

"Yes,  awkwardly  so,"  and  he  heard  himself  tell- 
ing Crystal  how  very  awkward  it  had  been  to  leave 
when  he  did ;  and  just  as  he  had  foreseen,  she  said : 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,  Horace!"  but  she  added,  "It  was 
partly  for  poor  little  Daphne,  wasn't  it?" 

Horace  hoped  his  voice  was  as  unconcerned  as  he 
meant  to  make  it.  "Partly.  But  unavailingly. 
She  sticks  to  her  resolution — little  goose!"  he 
managed  to  say  carelessly. 

"There's  something  very  fine  in  it,  all  the  same, 
Horace." 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  a  singleness  of  purpose  one  doesn't 
look  for  in  the  modern  complicated  type  of  girl." 

"One  questions  the  economy,"  mused  Crystal,  "in 
a  case  like  Daphne's.  Of  course  to  anyone  who 
knows  her  capabilities  it  seems  an  appalling  waste." 

"Why  do  we  talk  of  anything  but  this  ideal  day  ?" 
protested  Horace,  "and  of  this  old  English  village?" 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  95 

"Village!  Our  market  town,  if  you  please.  See 
the  old  Town  Hall?  A  little  apology  for  one,  but 
rather  fine,  isn't  it?  And  look  down  our  main 
street.  Was  ever  anything  dearer?" 

"Only  one  thing,"  said  the  warm  voice  in  her  ear, 
for  the  movement  to  show  him  the  main  street  had 
brought  her  closer  to  him,  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  her  wide  hat,  he  could  have  kissed  the  soft  hair. 

"Be  good,  Horace,  please.  We  are  now  passing 
old  Miss  Pennycuick's.  She  sits  all  day  in  that 
upper  window,  where  she  can  see  you  perfectly." 

If  she  abjured  him  to  be  good,  she  was  never- 
theless a  little  chilled  that  he  acted  on  the  adjuration 
so  obediently.  Was  there  some  reserve  behind  his 
obedience,  some  withdrawal  she  only  vaguely 
realised  ? 

Crystal  did  not  let  herself  think  so.  She  pointed 
out  the  fine  old  church,  with  the  narrow  stream  of 
clear  water  that  ran  along  the  churchyard  wall. 
Then  the  humpy  little  house  where  Mary  Anna 
Barkuss  lived,  Mary  Anna  was  close  on  to  ninety- 
seven. 

"We  live  to  a  great  age  in  Oxfordshire,"  she  sai(l. 
"Half  of  our  own  village  have  passed  seventy,  and 
at  least  five  of  us  are  long  over  ninety." 

They  were  out  of  the  little  town  now,  and  Horace 
could  study  his  companion's  face  openly. 

"You're  as  beautiful  as  I've  remembered  you, 
Crystal,"  he  said.  He  did  not  say  that  the  first  tiny 
wrinkles  he  had  ever  observed  in  her  face  could  be 
seen  near  her  eyes  when  she  laughed,  but  she 
realised  his  scrutiny.  His  own  face,  in  the  trying 


96        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

South  American  atmosphere,  had  aged  perceptibly. 
And  Crystal  admitted  frankly  to  herself,  that  she 
could  see  it,  and  liked  it  all  the  better.  But  as  Katty 
had  often  said,  "A  woman  loves  a  man  because  of 
his  drawbacks.  A  man  loves  a  woman  in  spite  of 
hers." 

"You  saw  Katty?"  she  said,  when  this  passed 
through  her  mind. 

"Yes,  and  I  had  to  evade  her  to  come  down  alone 
today.  She's  splendid,  Katty  is,  more  amusing  than 
ever,  but  I  didn't  wish  to  make  the  trip  'en  famille'. 
She  has  a  fresh  bee  in  her  bonnet,  by  the  way,  did 
you  know?" 

"Not  the  Irish  one?     That's  always  buzzing." 

"No,  a  Serbian  one.  She  has  two  extraordinarily 
attractive  men  in  tow — officers,  I  believe,  altho'  I 
saw  them  only  in  mufti.  I  didn't  in  the  least  know 
what  their  nationality  was.  Serbian,  by  George! 
Have  you  seen  them?" 

"No.  I've  seen  but  one  Serbian,  a  Mr.  Mirko 
Collovich  whom  I  met  once  at  dinner.  But  he 
might  have  been  of  any  nationality.  Just  a  delight- 
ful man  of  the  world,  with  an  American  wife." 

"These  two  were  types  apart,"  answered  Horace. 
"One  couldn't  associate  them  with  anything  one 
knew." 

"Katty  tells  me,"  Crystal  went  on,  "indeed  she's 
been  telling  me  for  two  years,  that  the  Serb  is  your 
real  superman.  And  no  one  has  dreamed  it." 

"We  certainly  haven't  in  the  Argentine. 
Serbians!  It's  a  revelation.  You  must  see  them." 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  97 

"I  shall  probably  see  them  in  time,"  replied 
Crystal.  "Katty  always  shares  her  stars  with  me." 

"She  collects  stars  as  other  people  do  pets.  Well, 
we're  all  animals  to  your  sister,  I  suppose.  I  take 
it  that  menage,  the  Cadogan  Square  one,  is  still 
serene  ?" 

"Why,  of  course;  didn't  it  seem  all  right?"  queried 
Crystal  in  surprise.  (Horace  almost  seemed  to 
wish  it  didn't). 

"Oh,  right  as  rain.  But  hasn't  Freke  been  away 
a  lot?" 

"All  through  the  war,"  said  Crystal.  "In  almost 
inaccessible  regions.  But  she's  very  happy  to  have 
her  boys  with  him.  They  are  amusingly  congenial, 
funny  shy  old  Blundell  and  those  lively  boys." 

"How  are  they  turning  out,  Katty's  boys?" 

"Horace,  they're  darlings!  Katty's  always  said 
her  children  were  nice  to  spite  us  all  ...  for  she 
was  very  casual  in  the  way  she  brought  them  up. 
We  all  thought  they  would  be  hopelessly  spoilt  and 
incapable." 

"I  can't  think  of  any  child  of  Katty's,  not  to  speak 
of  Merton  Hazelby  White's,  as  incapable." 

"Well,  my  little  sister  was  extraordinarily  unlike 
other  mothers.  She  always  declared  that  neglect 
was  better  for  any  child  than  the  best  of  care.  And 
these  two  were  certainly  neglected,  according  to  con- 
ventional standards.  But  they've  turned  out 
marvels !' 

"Good-looking,  of  course?" 

"Yes,"  considered  Crystal.  "You  remember 
what  their  father  was  called?  'The  handsomest 


98        WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

man  in  the  state  of  New  York.'  The  boys  are  both 
like  him,  and  like  each  other,  yet  unlike." 

"What  are  they  in  feeling,  English?" 

"Mercy,  no!"  laughed  Crystal.  'They  are  the 
most  genuinely  American  creatures  ever  known. 
They've  been  flying,  as  you  know,  first  in  the 
English  service;  but  as  soon  as  we  entered  the  war, 
they  transferred  to  the  American.  But  there  or 
here,  they've  both  been,  since  they  were  babies,  for 
America  first,  last,  and  all  the  time." 

However,  Horace  had  had  enough  of  Katty's 
boys.  "How  are  your  own  attractive  young?"  he 
asked. 

"Blooming.  I  hope  you'll  like  them,  Horace. 
I've  taken  a  leaf  out  of  Katty's  book.  I  try  not  to 
worry  so  much  about  them." 

"I  shall  rejoice  if  that  means  I'll  see  more  of  you 
and  ...  " 

"And  less  of  them?"  smiled  Crystal.  "It  will. 
These  are  Elysian  fields  for  kiddies  ...  so  safe 
and  yet  so  free.  They  may  do  anything  .  .  . 
almost  anything,  they  like  here." 

She  did  not  tell  him  what  they  had  done  to 
Daffodil.  There  was  always  a  good  deal  you  didn't 
tell  Horace,  particularly  about  children. 

"You  mustn't  mind  if  we're  not  so  orderly  as  we 
shall  be,"  she  warned  him.  "You  know  we  arrived 
only  Thursday,  came  up  this  same  way,  with  Dicky 
the  Driver,  not  knowing  in  the  least  what  the  Pond 
House  would  be  like.  Of  course  we'd  been  all  over 
this  country  .  .  .  our  little  place  during  the  war  was 
over  there  to  the  right,  by  way  of  Bittums.  But 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  99 

the  Pond  House  was  so  deliciously  shut  in,  this  vil- 
lage so  retired,  we  never,  in  all  our  excursions  about 
here,  even  suspected  its  existence." 

"Am  I  not  to  see  your  other  village?  Your  ac- 
counts of  it  last  year  were  pretty  fine  reading,  my 
dear." 

"You're  too  kind  to  my  letters."  Crystal  was 
pleased,  as  always.  "Yes.  If  you  like  we'll  walk 
over  there  after  tea.  Old  Shepherd  Gammon  is  ill, 
and  we'll  go  to  enquire  for  him." 

Horace  knew  all  about  Shepherd.  Indeed,  there 
was  little  in  this  section  of  Oxfordshire  he  didn't 
know  about,  from  her  letters.  And  part  of  Horace's 
charm  was  his  ardent  appreciation.  You  could 
count  on  it,  whether  it  was  for  the  beautiful,  the 
amusing,  or  the  curious  .  .  <  for  types  as  far  apart 
as  Shepherd  Gammon  and  Peter  Norton.  "Horace 
the  Epicurean,"  Tom  McCarthy  had  called  him. 

As  they  turned  out  of  the  main  road  into  Cheese- 
foot  lane,  he  was  delighted  with  the  two  or  three 
tiled  roofs,  the  enormous  elms  that  dwarfed  the 
cottages,  and  the  ample  fields  into  which  the  tiny 
village  melted.  Some  low  out-houses  and  a  long 
wall  Crystal  pointed  out  as  the  beginning  of  her 
own  domain;  and  two  immaculate  shouting  white 
figures  and  a  silent  grey  one  hailed  their  arrival 
from  the  paddock  gate. 

The  white  figures  disappeared,  and  Horace  had 
time  to  hand  Crystal  out,  and  to  have  his  first  look 
at  the  embowered,  yes,  that  was  the  word,  the  de- 
lightfully embowered  old  place,  before  they  dashed 
around  the  corner  to  hurl  themselves  upon  him. 


ioo      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"Uncle  Horace!  Isn't  Pond  House  nice?  Did 
you  see  Daffodil?  and"  (this  from  Bobby) 
"where  is  Mr.  Honey?  Weelum  Jawge,  come  here. 
Don't  forget,  you  know  what,  Weelum  Jawge!" 

Mr.  Honey  removed  his  cap  as  previously  ar- 
ranged with  Bobby,  and  looked  into  it  anxiously. 

"Oh,  this  is  Mr.  Honey?"  Horace  shook  hands 
as  seriously  as  even  Bobby  required.  Mr.  Honey 
said  "Yeh,"  and  dropped  the  cap. 

Bedelia  regarded  the  returned  uncle  with  an  un- 
wavering gaze.  She  seemed  to  remember  that  on 
previous  visits  this  rather  overwhelming  person  had 
taken  more  of  Mummie's  time  than  was  desirable. 
But  Bedelia  was  now  nine,  and  liked  the  grown  up 
courtesy  with  which  Uncle  Horace  said, 

"That's  a  very  nice  frock,  Bedelia,  and  what  an 
excellent  dog!" 

"Pure  bred,"  said  Miss  McClinton  briefly.  "To 
make  up  for  leaving  America." 

"I  see  he  has  no  collar.  May  I  present  one  with 
'Bedelia  McClinton,  her  dog,  The  Pond  House'  on 
it?" 

The  austere  Bedelia  smiled,  and  the  younger  Mc- 
Clinton announced  promptly. 

"What  I  need  is  a  mud  guard!" 

"Shame,  Bobby,  that's  hinting  for  a  present," 
said  scandalised  nine  years  old. 

"It's  not,  it's  for  a  bicycle,"  retorted  five  years, 
nearly  in  tears.  "It's  ve  English  for  fender." 

Uncle  Horace  was  agreeably  alert  in  his  remark 
that  a  mud  guard  could  be  as  easily  procured  as  a 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  101 

dog  collar,  and  Bobby,  much  relieved,  brought  Mr. 
Honey  to  this  delightful  relative's  notice. 

"Weelum  Jawge  would  like  a  knife,"  he  said. 

"Mummie!"  remonstrated  Bedelia.  "Why  do 
you  let  him  go  on  asking  for  things?" 

But  Mummie  opined  that  Uncle  Horace  was  quite 
capable  of  protecting  himself,  even  from  Bobby, 
and  the  knife  was  promised  to  Mr.  Honey. 

After  this,  Bobby,  as  the  man  of  the  house,  es- 
corted Uncle  Horace  to  his  room,  one  of  those  over- 
looking the  garden  and  the  pond;  better  still,  the 
meadows  and  the  blue  Chiltern  Hills. 

"It's  ve  best  guest  room,"  Bobby  remarked  re- 
flectively. "And  if  you  look  past  Fitches,  you  can 
see  ve  Icknield  Way." 

"Thank  you,  Bobby,  I've  come  more  than  half 
around  the  world  to  see  that  Icknield  Way  and  all 
that's  near  it." 

"Do  ve  people  where  you  live  have  mud  guards, 
Uncle  Horace?"  pursued  Bobby,  with  an  innocence 
that  would  have  infuriated  Bedelia,  had  she  been 
there. 

Horace  laughed,  and  put  the  small  boy  almost 
tenderly  out  of  the  room.  "I  won't  forget  the  mud 
guard,"  he  promised,  "nor  Mr.  Honey's  knife,"  and 
Bobby  went  importantly  downstairs. 

Tea  was  served  in  the  orchard,  where  a  low  plat- 
form had  been  built  around  a  century-old  apple 
tree,  so  that  you  could  look  across  the  quaint  kitchen 
garden,  beyond  the  evening  fields,  to  that  Icknield 
Way  Bobby  had  shown  Horace. 

"Is  there  any  corner  about  Pond  House  that  is 


102      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

not  exquisite?"  asked  the  really  enraptured  guest. 
"It's  what  one  dreams  of — this  old  little  house  and 
old  big  garden."  And  to  himself  he  said  that 
Crystal  herself  was  as  tranquil  and  exquisite  as  her 
garden.  And  Crystal,  knowing  what  he  thought, 
reassured  herself  that  this  was  what  she  had  dreamed 
of  too — the  safe  return  of  her  beloved,  the  loveli- 
ness of  their  environment,  his  obvious  content — 
and  yet,  and  yet — 

As  soon  as  tea  was  over,  Crystal  proposed  the 
walk  across  'Bittums  to  see  old  Shepherd.  Yes, 
she  went  every  evening,  it  was  all  she  could  do  for 
him.  Was  she  restless?  Horace  asked  himself. 

The  walk  was  part  of  a  perfect  day.  Bittums 
was  a  foot  path  only,  and  most  of  the  time  Horace 
kept  just  behind  his  guide,  watching  her  lovely  head 
against  the  sunset,  or  against  the  clump  of  fine  old 
oaks  on  the  brow  of  the  hill.  It  was  all  too  short  a 
way  over  to  Shepherd's  thatched  cottage. 

The  old  man  sat  by  a  smouldering  fire,  despite  the 
summer  weather,  on  what  Horace  could  see  was  the 
mate  to  the  long  chair  in  Crystal's  garden, — his 
poor  swathed  leg  comfortably  supported.  A  fine  old 
type,  as  Crystal  had  described  him,  long,  gaunt,  with 
rugged  features,  a  colour  still  fresh,  a  keen  eye. 

The  cottage  consisted  of  but  two  rooms,  one  above 
the  other,  with  a  narrow  stair,  like  a  ladder.  How 
did  the  poor  old  boy  ever  mount  it  ?  Horace  won- 
dered. The  door  and  one  little  leaded  window 
opened  west,  on  to  Shepherd's  own  vegetable  patch 
and  toward  the  neighbouring  pasture  lands.  The 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  103 

east  window,  also  small  and  leaded,  looked  to  the 
village,  and  over  old  Eliza  Woodworth's  cabbages. 

"Allus  summat  to  look  on,"  said  Shepherd.  "No 
call  for  mopin,'  I  says.  Cabbages  be  rare  growin'. 
But  her"  (with  a  twinkle  toward  Crystal)  "her 
doesn't  hold  wi'  cabbages." 

"I  feel  properly  apologetic,"  laughed  Crystal. 
"Shepherd  can't  forgive  me  for  not  letting  him  plant 
all  Pond  House  in  cabbages." 

"Yearth  be  made  for  cabbages,"  maintained  the 
old  man,  sententiously,  "but  her  do  like  taters." 

"And  that  redeems  her?"  Horace  asked.  A  wise 
grunt  was  the  reply. 

"Shepherd  had  my  whole  place  planted  and  grow- 
ing before  ever  we  saw  it,"  Crystal  explained.  "He 
made  that  long  journey  every  day,  to  be  sure  I'd 
find  it  all  ready.  And  now  Mr.  Dimock  is  to  eat 
some  of  your  new  potatoes  this  evening,  Shepherd, 
and  your  beautiful  spinach." 

"Spinach  be  well  enough,"  mumbled  Shepherd, 
"if  so  be  can't  get  cabbage,"  but  in  a  louder  tone, 
"Thankee  for  baccy,  m'm.  It  coom  this  arternoon. 
Her  sends  me  my  baccy,  her  do,"  he  offered  to 
Horace.  "Best  plug  as  coom  from  London,  so 
make  two  ends  meet,  ar  do." 

"Tell  Mr.  Dimock,  Shepherd,  just  how  you  do 
make  them  meet.  He'll  never  believe  it." 

"Ar  gets  seven  shillun  sixpence  a  week,  from 
gov'ment;  every  week  ar  gets  it.  Old  Age  Pension 
it  be.  Out'n  it  one'n  fourpence  rent." 

"Not  thirty-two  cents  a  week  for  this  delicious 
cottage,"  interpolated  Crystal. 


104      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"Five  shillun  to  Thyrza  for  my  dinner,  and  a- 
keepin'  all  proper,  leaves  one  an'  two  for  extries — 
tea  an'  sugar  an'  a  bit  o'  bread." 

"One  and  two — a  shilling  and  two  pence,  not 
twenty-eight  cents,"  thus  Crystal  again,  "for  his 
breakfast  and  tea." 

"But  what  about  clothes  ?"  marvelled  Horace. 

"O  when  so  be  ar  need  trousies,  ar  digs  taters  for 
her  yonder !"  and  the  old  fellow  chuckled  at  Crystal. 

"Or  he  makes  me  have  more  cabbages,"  said 
Crystal,  rising.  "Thank  you,  Shepherd.  And 
good-bye  for  this  time.  Mr.  Dimock  will  know 
where  to  come  when  he's  down  to  seven  and  six  a 
week. 

"May  I  not  send  some — er — some  South  Ameri- 
can tobacco?"  said  Horace. 

"Nothin'  no  better,  nowhere,  nor  hers,"  answered 
Shepherd  uncompromisingly. 

"Instead  of  manufacturing  tobacco  so  gratui- 
tously," Mrs.  McClinton  suggested,  "why  not  send 
Shepherd  something  already  made?  I  mean  Bovo." 

"Of  course,  the  very  thing.  I'll  send  him  a 
case,"  agreed  Horace,  with  genuine  pleasure. 

They  walked  home  rather  silently.  To  be 
seventy-five;  to  be  ill  and  alone;  to  live  on  a  few 
shillings  a  week — yet  to  be  contented 

"Godly  as  a  Gammon,"  came  into  Crystal's  mind 
— and  she  laughed. 

"Oh,  Horace!  when  I  think  of  what  I  have,  and 
yet  what  trifles  I  allow  to  disturb  me — I  am  indeed 
ashamed." 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  105 

"Then  there  is  a  trifle,  my  dearest  ?"  But  Horace 
did  not  press  for  it.  And  -was  she  his  dearest? 

The  dinner  Crystal  had  so  carefully  planned  was 
a  triumph  for  the  gratified  Mrs.  Rumbold.  Even 
the  Gorgonzola  was  perfect.  It  was  nearly  ten 
when  they  finished,  and  the  light  table  having  been 
removed,  Horace  leaned  back  in  the  long  chair 
smoking.  .  .  .  When  Crystal  sat  on  a  stool  beside 
him, — with  her  head — it  was  a  very  deep  shadow, 
that  under  the  rose  arbour! — against  his  shoulder, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  all  his  happiness  was  there — 
unaffected  by  that  disturbing  experience  in  the  con- 
vent. 

A  beautiful  night — a  beautiful  woman  who 
adores  you — the  quiet  of  country  solitude — those 
tiresome  children  long  asleep — the  servants  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  Mrs.  Rumbold  undoubtedly  pre- 
paring that  very  moment  to  go  majestically  home, 
to  her  son,  Mo.  Mo  was  probably  snoring  already. 
The  little  maids  would  tiptoe  up  to  their  room 
directly,  with  a  guttering  candle 

Horace  savoured  every  moment  of  it.  The 
fragrance  of  the  rose  overhead  was  like  a  garden 
incense.  The  frogs  croaked  in  the  pond  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wall.  Little  murmurs  ran  through 
the  trees.  Above  them,  the  illimitable  dark  blue  of 
the  June  night.  .  .  . 

Was  it  not  for  this  he  had  come  across  the  world  ? 

He  felt  Crystal  stiffen  suddenly  as  she  sat  away 
from  him.  He  had  not  heard  a  sound,  but  there 
before  them,  arriving  so  noiselessly  she  might  have 


io6      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

dropped  from  the  air,  and  close  enough  to  show  her 
big  eyes,  stood  Bedelia,  in  her  little  nightgown. 

"Darling!  What's  wrong?"  said  Crystal  breath- 
lessly. 

"Bobby.  I  think  he's  going  to  die,"  said  Miss 
McClinton.  "I  want  to  go  back  to  America." 

Crystal  was  on  her  feet,  and  before  the  child 
had  finished,  inside  the  house.  They  heard  her  run 
lightly  up  the  stairs. 

''What's  the  matter,  really?"  enquired  Horace. 
"Are  you  dreaming,  Bedelia?" 

"No,  Uncle  Horace.  Poor  little  Bobby  is  being 
sick — in  English,  not  American,  you  know.  Ivy 
says  he  'sicked'  all  over  the  carpet.  Ivy  shut  the 
doors  so  Mummie  wouldn't  be  worried.  But  I 
thought  I'd  tell  her.  When  you're  sick,  you  do 
want  Mummie,  don't  you,  Uncle  Horace?" 

"Evidently  you  do,"  said  Uncle  Horace,  coldly. 
"I  suppose  Bobby  had  been  eating  something  he 
shouldn't?" 

"Only  green  plums.  But  Ivy  didn't  know,  and 
she  gave  him  lots  of  fresh  milk,  oh,  quarts.  And 
he  ate  nearly  a  tree  of  plums.  Ivy  found  them 
under  his  pillow.  And  they  were  under  mine  too. 
Ivy  says  if  he  dies  it  will  be  my  fault." 

If  Bedelia  looked  for  comfort,  she  was  dis- 
appointed. Uncle  Horace  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette, 
and  walked  away. 

"You'd  better  go  back  to  bed,"  he  said  carelessly. 

Bedelia's  eyes  filled.  How  different  Uncles  were 
from  Mummies !  She  would  go  upstairs.  Perhaps 
they  would  let  her  sit  beside  Bobby,  if  he  was  better. 


HORACE'S  ARRIVAL  107 

She  would  show  him  her  caterpillar — the  one  she 
hadn't  let  him  touch  that  afternoon.  It  was  in  her 
soap  dish.  At  any  rate,  Mummie  was  upstairs. 
And  even  Ivy  was  better  than  an  uncle. 

Horace  left  the  garden  and  walked  through  the 
village.  Sallum  Prior  was  all  asleep.  Not  a  light 
in  any  window — not  a  window,  he  observed,  was 
open,  and  he  conjured  up  an  unpleasing  vision  of 
the  Sallumites  breathing  heavily  in  the  bad  air  of 
their  low  small  rooms. 

A  farther  vision  of  Bobby  "sicking'.'  all  over  the 
carpet,  disgusting  child!  wasn't  pleasant  either. 
And  Crystal,  of  course,  would  not  leave  the  brat 
before  morning.  That  was  the  worst  of  women 
with  children — nothing  else  counted.  There  was 
much  to  be  said  for  the  childless — for  the  unmarried 
— for  the  celibate.  He  found  himself  again  con- 
fronting a  slender  figure  in  a  little  knitted  black 
shawl.  He  saw  again  the  pale  face,  the  green  blue 
eyes  wide  in  an  ecstasy  not  of  this  world. 

An  hour  later  he  returned  to  a  quiet  house.  A 
night  light  burned  in  the  hall  beside  his  bed-room 
candle.  There  was  a  tray  there  too,  with  some  sand- 
wiches and  a  glass  jug  of  the  weak  iced  Russian  tea 
he  liked. 

He  softened  a  little  at  that,  especially  as  both 
tea  and  sandwiches  were  very  good.  But  when  he 
had  mounted  to  his  room  and  Crystal  opened 
Bobby's  door,  he  hardened  again. 


io8      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"I'm  sorry,  Horace,  but  the  poor  shrimp  has  been 
pretty  sick." 

"Will  you  come  downstairs  again?"  said  Horace, 
not  urgently. 

"I  mustn't.  He  still  has  fever.  I  don't  dare 
leave  him." 

"It  was  only  unripe  fruit,  according  to  Bedelia," 
said  her  visitor  shortly. 

Her  eyes  filled  as  Bedelia's  had  done — and 
Horace,  in  a  belated  contrition,  kissed  her  with  a 
hurried,  "He'll  be  all  right.  Try  to  get  some  sleep," 
and  turned  to  his  own  door. 

Crystal  stood  a  moment  looking  after  him.  Per- 
haps she  would  have  spoken,  but  a  frightened  little 
voice  called  "Mummie !"  and  she  hastily  returned  to 
the  sick  child. 

Horace  shut  his  door,  not,  considering  there  was 
illness  in  the  house,  too  quietly. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SERBIA    IN    OXFORDSHIRE 

EARLY  July  smiled  on  the  Pond  House  as 
serenely  as  late  June. 

If  Crystal  cried  herself  to  sleep  that  first  night 
she  did  not  show  it.  A  dainty  little  breakfast  had 
gone  up  on  a  tray  to  Horace  about  nine.  When  he 
came  down,  very  handsome  in  white  flannels,  it 
seemed  there  were  imperative  letters  to  answer. 
The  little  drawing  room  was  given  solemnly  over  to 
his  needs,  while  a  rather  pale  and  pathetic  Bobby 
allowed  himself  to  be  read  to  in  the  orchard,  whither 
his  mother  and  Ivy  transported  him  in  the  long 
garden  chair.  Bedelia,  Finn  McCoul  and  Mr. 
Honey  sat  as  near  as  possible  to  the  invalid  while 
Crystal,  who  read  untiringly,  devoted  two  hours  to 
Mrs.  Nesbit's  absorbing  story  of  the  "Would-be- 
Goods." 

By  one  o'clock  Master  McClinton  had  sufficiently 
recovered  to  sit  at  the  garden  table,  very  near  to 
Mummie,  please;  and  to  outward  seeming  it  was  a 
lively  and  united  family  that  awaited  Mrs.  Rumbold's 
imposing  entry  with  the  soup. 

After  the  meal,  more  letters  for  Horace.  A  last 
look  at  the  guest  rooms  for  Crystal.  There  were 
only  two,  Horace's  and  a  larger  one  with  two  beas. 

109 


i io      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Katty  had  telegraphed  only  "Coming  three  strong 
on  the  four  ten"  ...  so  it  was  to  be  hoped  the 
strangers  would  fit  into  the  two-bedded  room. 
Bedelia  would  surrender  her  room  to  Tante  Katty, 
"who  always  brings  presents,"  said  Miss  McClinton 
reflectively,  "so  it  is  a  pleasure  to  be  generous  to 
her." 

"Would  Bedelia  accompany  Uncle  Horace  to  the 
train  to  meet  the  guests  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  firmly,  from  Bedelia. 

Crystal  looked  a  little  anxiously  at  Horace. 
Would  he  think  her  children's  manners  no  better 
than  their  tummies?  But  Horace's  own  manner 
was  perfect. 

"We  could  leave  that  order  for  the  dog  collar," 
he  said,  as  tho'  absently,  "and  look  at  mud  guards 
and  knives.' 

"O  Bedelia,  do  go!  You  could  bring  ve  mud 
guard  wiv  Tante  Katty!" 

So  Miss  McClinton  relented,  and  later  allowed 
herself  to  be  made  as  "flossy"  as  a  critical  small 
brother  advised. 

They  had  left  the  house  when  Horace  came  back 
unexpectedly  to  the  little  drawing  room.  Crystal 
stood  by  the  mirror,  looking  seriously  at  her  own 
reflection.  She  turned  as  seriously  to  Horace  when 
he  entered. 

"Is  that  what  it  is,  dear  ?  Have  I  gone  off  in  my 
looks?"  she  said. 

Horace  drew  her  tenderly  to  him, — the  first  time 
that  day. 

"Gone  off !     You've  gone  on.     You're  handsomer 


SERBIA  IN  OXFORDSHIRE          in 

than  ever.  But  something  is  troubling  me,  Crystal. 
I'll  tell  you  very  soon.  Trust  me,  dearest." 

Crystal's  eyes  studied  him  with  reviving  happi- 
ness. 

"I'm  sorry  if  you're  bothered,"  she  murmured. 
"But,  oh,  I'm  glad  I'm  not  losing  the  only  thing  I 
hold  you  by, — my  tiresome  looks!"  And  when 
Horace  had  kissed  her  with  all  the  old  time  passion, 
and  had  even  come  back  to  kiss  her  yet  once  and 
twice  more,  she  felt  that  she  was  quite  cheerful 
again. 

"Mummie,  Mummie !"  came  her  youngest's  voice 
as  Crystal,  in  her  soft  white,  descended  the  funny 
old  stairway  some  time  after  six.  "It's  soldiers! 
live  soldiers  wiv  Tante  Katty!  Me  and  Finn  Mc- 
Coul  met  ve  fly  by  Selwood's,  so  it's  true !" 

%, 

Indeed,  Finn  McCoul  followed  close  on  Bobby's 
heels  barking  vigorous  confirmation. 

"Quiet,  Finn  McCoul!"  cautioned  Crystal,  hurry- 
ing to  meet  her  guests.  She  encountered  beaming 
Dicky  the  Driver  bringing  in  their  bags.  Horace 
was  handing  Katty  from  the  fly,  and  Bedelia,  with 
pink  cheeks,  drew  forward  a  smiling  stranger  in 
uniform.  Behind  him,  also  smiling,  a  second  figure 
in  the  same  uniform,  a  figure  much  taller  than  the 
rest  of  them,  much  younger  than  anyone  but  the 
children.  Both  saluted  as  she  appeared. 

"Katty's  Serbians,  of  course !"  Crystal  liked  them 
on  sight.  And  when  her  sister  presented  them  with 
unusual  formality,  and  they  had  kissed  her  hand, 
looking  at  her  with  open  if  respectful  admiration, 
she  smiled  at  them  as  at  old  friends. 


ii2      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"They  have  been  recalled  to  Belgrade,  worse 
luck!"  said  Lady  Freke,  "and  I  insisted  on  their 
coming  down  to  you  for  a  little  holiday  first." 

"We  always  do  what  the  Lady  Freke  commands," 
said  Dakovich.  "I  do  not  think  otherwise  we  could 
have  the  courage  to  come  to  a  stranger  as  to  an  old 
friend." 

"I  am  sure  you  have  discovered  how  much  my 
sister  enjoys  having  guests,  and  in  that  at  least  I 
am  just  like  her,"  replied  Crystal.  "And  I  am 
always  hoping  new  comers  will  love  my  Oxford- 
shire." 

"Mrs.  McClinton  has  the  ardour  of  the  convert," 
put  in  Horace.  "We  Americans,  if  we  are  con- 
verted to  England  at  all,  go  over  so  completely  that 
we  spend  the  rest  of  our  lives  making  other  con- 
verts." 

"But  you  Americans  and  the  English  are  the 
same,  is  it  not  so?"  asked  Stefan.  "Au  -fond,  that 
is?" 

"Au  root,"  said  Lady  Freke,  flippantly.  "But 
we're  two  quite  different  plants." 

"Fleece  ?"  asked  Boyovich — and  when  Stefan  had 
translated  this  for  him,  he  said  vehemently: 

"No,  no,  no,  no!  You  not  English — you  not 
American! — We  respect  English — not  lofe — we  ad- 
mire American — not  lofe.  We  respect,  admire, 
and  lofe  you,  Madame"  (to  Katty),  "and  you, 
Madame"  (to  Crystal),  "and,  and  little — Mademoi- 
selle and  Monsieur,"  gathering  the  two  children  to 
him  despite  their  wriggles  to  escape. 

"And  evidently  not  Mr.  Dimock !"  mocked  Katty. 


SERBIA  IN  OXFORDSHIRE          113 

"O  pardon,  Monsieur  Dimock!"  said  Boyovich 
in  distress.  "I  not  know  how  to  make  understand 
you  me "  He  spoke  rapidly  to  Stefan,  who  ex- 
plained, 

"Captain  Boyovich  would  say  he  cannot  ascertain 
Mr.  Dimock's  nationality — but  with  the  ladies,  he 
is  sure  they  are  not  English  and  not  American — he 
has  never,  pardon  Serb  frankness, — he  has  never 
loved  American  or  English  before." 

"Irish!"  announced  Lady  Freke  triumphantly. 
"Now  am  I  not  justified?  Serbia  can  love  Ireland 
where  she  only  admires  or  respects  America  and 
England!" 

"Revolutionnaire?"  exclaimed  Boyovich. 

"If  to  be  a  Home  Ruler  is  revolutionnaire,  behold 
one !  Only  one — My  sister  is  a  Conservative — Mr. 
Dimock  is  Liberal — on  the  outside"  (with  a  wicked 
nod  to  Horace),  "and  you,  Captain  Boyovich?" 

"Revolutionnaire,  Madame — heart,  head,  body!" 
and  Boyovich  kissed  Lady  Freke's  hand. 

"As  a  perfectly  good  hostess,"  announced  Crystal, 
"I  am  within  my  rights  in  ordering  you  all  to  your 
rooms  to  prepare  for  dinner — no  tea  today,  'tis  too 
late — but  dinner  at  seven." 

"Of  course  I  go  up  with  Xante  Katty,"  remarked 
Bedelia. 

"O  Mummie,  can't  I  go  too?     Vere  is  a  reason." 

"Children,  you've  no  sense  of  shame."  Crystal 
put  her  arm  around  her  little  sister.  "This  person 
always  brings  the  pirates  wonderful  presents,"  she 
explained,  and  Horace  offered  to  take  Bobby's  place 
as  host  to  the  Serbian  guests. 


ii4      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Tante  Katty  was  accordingly  escorted  with 
affectionate  zeal  up  to  Bedelia's  room,  whence 
shrieks  of  joy  could  be  heard  directly,  and  Bobby, 
emerging  first,  made  a  triumphant  descent  into  the 
garden  with  a  bicycle  bell  of  so  fearful  a  resonance 
that  his  mother  fled  with  her  hands  to  her  ears.  His 
unwarranted  departure  at  that  hour  for  an  obvious 
tour  of  the  village  was  not  interfered  with,  and  the 
clang  of  this  new  instrument  of  torture,  growing 
blessedly  fainter,  could  be  distinguished  even  above 
Miss  McClinton's  vociferous  rapture  as  she  also 
sought  Mummie  for  congratulation. 

"What  I  have  been  simply  dying  for!"  Bedelia 
was  in  ecstasies.  "O  Mummie,  Tante  Katty  does 
understand  children!  It's  a  darling!  It's  a  he — 
his  name  is  Obadiah!  O  Mummie!" 

"ObadiaK"  was  a  large  white  rat. 

"Katty !"  Crystal  called  up  to  her  sister's  window. 
"Hadn't  I  troubles  enough?" 

"I  dont  'lofe'  children,"  came  from  Lady  Freke, 
as  she  looked  out  of  the  rose  surrounded  window  of 
Bedelia's  room,  "and  they  don't  lofe  me.  But  I  can 
at  any  rate  purchase  their  respect — and  Obadiah  will 
introduce  a  new  element,  the  Biblical,  into  this 
family.  Be  thankful  it  is  not  Mrs.  Obadiah, 
Crystal." 

They  sat  late  over  dinner  that  evening.  The 
Serbians  were  apparently  delighted.  By  some 
magic  Katty  had  brought  Captain  Boyovich  to  the 
point  of  actually  talking.  He  had  convinced  every- 
body, himself  included,  that  he  could  never  speak 


SERBIA  IN  OXFORDSHIRE          115 

English.  Curiously,  he  did  not  know  French,  and 
although  he  had  studied  German  at  school  for  years, 
he  would  not,  he  said  with  Slav  bitterness,  speak  a 
word  of  that  language. 

His  efforts  now  were  extraordinary,  but  at  any 
rate  he  could  be  understood,  and  Stefan  translated 
everything  that  Boyovich  could  not  himself  under- 
stand. 

Horace  observed  that  Crystal  studied  the  younger 
Serbian  with  obvious  pleasure.  She  plainly  liked 
his  devotion  to  Katty,  the  way  he  said  "Majka"  to 
her.  Merton  and  Hazleby  called  her  Mater, 
English  schoolboy  fashion  (and  pronounciation). 
Was  Crystal  comparing  him  to  Katty's  own  boys? 
Horace  wondered. 

The  evening  was  so  lovely,  the  light  on  the  hills 
so  dreamlike,  they  carried  the  table  bodily  out  from 
the  rose  arbour,  and  placed  it  crosswise  on  the  lawn, 
where  they  could  all  look  toward  the  Chilterns. 

"It  is  primateef,"  Boyovich  said  joyfully.  "It 
is  true  life." 

"The  man  has  the  face  to  prefer  your  dinner  on 
the  grass,  Crystal,  to  all  Grimmer  does  for  him  at 
Cadogan  Square,"  said  Lady  Freke. 

"He  is  a  poet,  Majka,"  Stefan  said  gravely.  "To 
him  Nature  is  more  than  friends." 

"No!"  protested  Boyovich.  "Understand  me. 
Nature"  (he  called  it  Nay-chure)  "Nature  sans, 
sans,  Lofe — it  is — not.  But  here  is  Nature — and 
Lofe.  I  say,  I  say "  (he  paused  for  help). 

"You    say    wonderfully,"    Crystal    aided    him. 


ii6      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"What,  exactly,  does  Captain  Boyovich  wish  to 
say?"  she  appealed  to  Stefan. 

The  boy  replied  after  a  moment's  talk  with  his 
friend,  "He  says  he  finds  Nature  here,  and  although 
he  is  a  stranger,  he  finds  Love  too,  and  that,  by  his 
theory  of  life,  is  perfection." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  after  the  young 
Serbian's  serious  full  voice  had  ceased.  This  alien 
people  ...  of  whom  one  knew  so  little — in  how 
far  was  their  outlook  one's  own?  Did  these  two 
represent  the  body  of  their  countrymen?  This 
poet,  who  was  so  gay  .  .  .  this  boy,  who  was  so 
grave?  Both  soldiers,  a  profession  an  American 
had  naturally  belittled  before  the  war,  and  even  now 
discounted? 

"I've  read  somewhere  .  .  .  long  ago,  of  course, 
that  the  Slav  temperament  accepts  all  conditions," 
said  Horace,  "without  protest." 

"But  that  spells  apathy,"  said  Lady  Freke.  "Was 
ever  anything  farther  from  these  two  than  apathy?" 

"You  are  too  kind  to  my  nation,  Moth-er,"  smiled 
the  younger  Serb.  "We  do  accept  too  often,  with- 
out protest.  Yet  probably  that  is  what  kept  us  alive 
in  old  days  as  a  people.  Active  resentment  would 
have  led  to  our  extermination." 

Boyovich  had  strolled  unconventionally  from  the 
table,  his  glass  of  wine  in  his  hand.  He  began  to 
sing  now,  even  more  unconventionally,  in  a  thin, 
very  sweet  tenor,  curious  foreign  words,  to  as 
curious  music;  it  was  not  a  tune,  in  the  European 
sense.  Horace  tried  in  vain  to  seize  upon  any 
rhythm  in  it. 


SERBIA  IN  OXFORDSHIRE          117 

The  little  maids  had  brought  out  the  coffee,  and 
stood  embarrassed,  each  holding  a  tray,  for  the 
singer  was  directly  in  their  path.  He  turned  sud- 
denly, and  seeing  what  was  wrong,  ejaculated, 

"I  sor-rye !  Exkuce !"  and  took  Ivy's  tray  from 
her,  with  a  smile  that  confused  her  still  further. 
Ada,  more  accustomed  to  serving,  placed  her  tray 
quickly  in  front  of  her  mistress,  and  escaped.  But 
the  Captain  had  now  changed  his  plaintive  song  to 
a  very  gay  one,  and,  to  Ivy's  agonized  astonishment, 
began  a  dance  around  the  lawn  with  the  tray  at  arm's 
length. 

"I  do  you  Serbian  national  dance,  Madame!"  he 
exulted,  amidst  the  applause  and  laughter,  but  the 
position  of  the  coffee  pot  looked  perilous,  and  Stefan, 
with  two  long  steps  after  him,  deftly  secured  the 
tray,  and  holding  it  firmly  on  one  side,  made  a 
pretence  of  saluting  his  superior  officer,  and  returned 
to  the  table. 

"He's  more  spontaneous  than  an  Irishman," 
asserted  Lady  Freke,  "and  there  is  no  higher  praise 
— from  me,  at  any  rate." 

Boyovich  stood  looking  blankly  at  the  others. 
Then  with  a  quick  step  to  Crystal's  side,  asked 
charmingly,  "You  an-grye?  Not?"  and  upon  her 
laughing  "No,  no,  Captain,  I'm  delighted!"  he 
kissed  her  hand  and  subsided  into  his  place  at  her 
right. 

Next  morning,  as  they  were  walking,  all  of  them, 
to  show  the  guests  the  Icknield  Way,  strange  old 
Saxon  road  that  cuts  across  this  corner  of  Oxford- 


n8      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

shire,   Horace  manoeuvred  Katty   away   from  the 
others. 

"Have  you  any  news  from  the  cloister?"  he  said. 

"Have  you  talked  to  Crystal  about  Daphne  yet?" 
countered  Lady  Freke,  with  a  quick  look  at  her 
companion. 

"'There  has  not  been  time,"  Horace  said,  feeling 
the  blood  in  his  face.  "Have  you  seen  her?" 

"Daphne?  Dear  no!  She  doesn't  encourage 
callers.  Crystal  will  go  out  there,  next  time  she  is 
in  town.  But  Crystal  is  nearer  to  her  than  I  have 
ever  been." 

"No  one  could  have  been  kinder  to  her  than  you." 

"Oh  —  kind — on  the  —  when-its-not-too-much- 
trouble-lay.  But  Crystal  has  been  mother,  sister 
and  friend — and  if  any  human  being,  outside  her 
convent,  could  influence  Daphne,  it's  Crystal." 

Horace  winced.  "But  she  hasn't  persuaded  her 
not  to  enter,"  he  hazarded. 

"No,  Crystal's  on  a  higher  moral  plane  than  I  am. 
She  won't  interfere  with  any  creature's  thoughts — 
I  draw  the  line  only  at  interfering  with  actions." 

"You  would  keep  her  in  the  world,  but  not  care 
what  disturbance  this  caused  her  mental  attitude?" 

"Exactly.  And  Crystal  would  never,  never,  by 
look  or  word,  interfere  with  her  thought,  let  alone 
her  action." 

"Are  they  fond  of  each  other?" 

"Genuinely.  Crystal  doesn't  love  your  sex  in- 
discriminately, as  I  do — but  she  does  her  own.  I 
love  a  man  because  it's  a  man.  Crystal  loves  a 
woman — or  even  more,  a  baby — because  it's  a 


SERBIA  IN  OXFORDSHIRE          119 

woman — or  a  baby.  And  to  Crystal,  Daphne  is 
both  woman  and  baby." 

"Well,  if  Crystal  won't  interfere,  and  you  and  I 
can't,  there's  evidently  nothing  to  be  done.  How 
long  before  she  takes  the  veil?" 

"That  depends.  She  may  be  a  postulant  for  a 
long  while  before  she's  a  novice.  You  ought  to 
know  much  more  about  this  than  poor  heathen  I," 
said  Katty.  "I  believe  though,  that  if  her  vocation 
is  particularly  evident,  she  may  enter  very  shortly." 

"Even  then  'tis  not  irrevocable,"  mused  Horace. 
"She  will  not  be  committed  to  it  till  the  novitiate  is 
over." 

"Queer  lot,  we  are,"  reflected  Lady  Freke. 

He  wondered  what  was  passing  through  the  keen, 
rather  malicious  little  mind  of  his  lively  friend. 
How  much  did  she  know?  How  much  did  she 
guess  ?  She  could  not  realise  the  depth  of  Crystal's 
devotion  to  himself,  for  however  light-minded 
Katty  was  about  women  in  general,  her  affection  for 
her  sister  was  profound.  She  would  never,  for 
instance,  have  played  on  his  possibly  "falling  for" 
Daphne — he  relapsed  into  the  vernacular — nor  on 
her  "falling  for"  him  if  she  had  even  guessed  .  .  . 

"Oh,  Uncle  Horace!"  shrilled  Bobby's  voice. 
"You've  passed  ve  Icknield  Way!"  corroborated 
loudly  by  Finn  McCoul. 

"Say  it,"  Katty  urged  her  companion,  "say  it, 
Horace!" 

"Say ?" 

"Say  that  excellent  man,  King  Herod,  has  never 


120      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

been  rightly  credited  for  his  efficient  methods  with 
children !" 

Horace  had  no  time  to  answer,  for  Bobby  had 
fallen  panting  against  his  aunt,  and  Finn  McCoul 
circled  about  the  group,  barking  energetically. 

Accordingly  they  went  back  to  the  others. 
Crystal  walked  between  the  Serbians.  Bedelia,  who 
was  carrying  Obadiah  on  an  extended  hand,  followed 
cautiously. 

"Strange  invasion  of  these  old  Saxon  fields," 
murmured  Horace,  half  to  himself.  "America,  Ire- 
land, Serbia,  in  the  ancient  Icknield  Way !" 

"More  curious  still,"  said  Crystal,  who  overheard 
him.  "Captain  Boyovich  has  turned  Bedelia's 
riddle  into  his  rightful  instrument,  the  'gusle."*  At 
that  the  Captain  held  it  up.  "The  Icknield  Way  has 
surely  never  heard  a  Serbian  bard  before!" 

"A  Guslar  gusling  on  a  gusle,"  said  Bedelia  to 
Obadiah,  settling  herself  on  the  grass  as  she  saw 
Boyovich  do  on  a  tree  stump.  And  she  looked  at 
him  steadily  with  blue  eyes,  as  did  Obadiah  with 
pink  ones. 

The  others  followed  suit,  forming  the  little  circle 
around  the  poet  that  he  evidently  loved.  He  held 
the  improvised  gusle  rather  stiffly  on  his  left  knee 
and  drew  the  bow  across  one  string,  using  that  only, 
although  the  fingering  was  rather  elaborate.  It 
was  surprising  how  much  music  he  got  out  of  that 
one  string.  Presently  a  rapt  look  came  into  his 
haggard  face,  and  he  began  his  song. 

"That's  historic,   Majka,"   Stefan  whispered  to 

*Gusle— pronounced  guss-leh  (guss  like  puss). 


SERBIA  IN  OXFORDSHIRE          121 

Lady  Freke,  "a  Serbian  national  ballad,  centuries 
old,"  and  then  fell  silent,  looking  off  over  the  fields 
as  though,  like  Boyovich,  he  had  forgotten  them  all. 

Bobby  and  Finn  McCoul  slipped  away,  but 
Bedelia,  with  Obadiah  on  her  shoulder,  continued  to 
regard  guslar  and  gusle  with  solemnity.  They  all 
had  some  of  a  child's  wonder,  Horace  thought  to 
himself,  in  face  of  this  unknown  uncomprehended 
people.  What  must  it  be  like  to  be  returning  as 
these  two  were  that  very  night,  to  a  distraught 
country,  a  tiny  country,  beggared  and  devastated  by 
an  atrocious  war,  surrounded  by  enemies,  with  no 
stability,  no  capital,  no  security?  Yet  rich  and 
stable  enough  to  have  produced  these  fine  flowers 
of  a  civilisation  so  much  older  than  his  own  that  it 
made  Horace  feel  new  and  green. 

He  wondered  if  their  women  were  as  dis- 
tinguished as  the  men — wondered  what  they  them- 
selves thought  of  their  women.  Boyovich  had 
said,  that  morning,  that  he  was  a  Socialist,  that 
above  all  he  was  for  world  democracies,  and  that 
women  must  be  included. 

"When  I  have  woman,"  he  said,  meaning  when  he 
should  have  a  wife,  "she  my  friend,  no  my  slave." 
But  they  had  all  laughed  at  the  readiness  with  which 
he  allowed  everything  to  be  done  for  him,  particu- 
larly by  the  women,  from  Crystal  to  the  little  maids. 

"The  Captain  is  a  democrat,"  Lady  Freke  had 
commented  tartly,  "with  the  inclinations  of  a  Czar." 
And  Horace  easily  pictured  him  when  he'd  "have 
woman."  He'd  be  undoubtedly  devoted,  perhaps 


122      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

even  faithful,  but  that  woman  would  spend  her  life 
waiting  on  her  democratic  lord. 

Horace  speculated  farther — looking  at  the  Ameri- 
can women  near  him — one  so  amusing,  one  so 
beautiful  and  gracious — both  such  capable,  friendly 
creatures.  Did  the  Serbians  understand  them, 
their  freedom,  their  coldness?  Not  likely.  Even 
Englishmen  looked  dubiously  at  the  position  of 
woman  in  the  United  States — Serbians  must  wonder 
at  many  things. 

What  would  they,  for  example,  say  to  Daphne? 
They  were  Greek  Catholics,  he  supposed — Ortho- 
dox, they  called  themselves.  In  how  far  did  their 
religious  institutions  agree  with  the  Roman 
Catholics?  They  had  convents,  he  imagined  (quite 
wrongly).  Nuns,  of  course,  he  thought  (wrongly 
again).  Was  there  in  all  that  unknown  country  of 
theirs  a  nun  with  a  pale  face  and  blue-green  eyes? 
Yes — he  could  imagine  that.  He  couldn't  picture  a 
French,  a  German,  an  Italian  Daphne — but  funnily 
enough,  ne  could  see  her  Serbian. 

The  music  stopped. 

"It  might  be  an  old  Irish  air  with  the  lilt  out  of 
it,"  Katty  was  saying.  "And  Guslar,  you  might  be 
an  Irish  harpist." 

"I  suppose,  in  a  way,  Ireland  and  Serbia  are  not 
unlike,"  came  rather  surprisingly  from  Crystal. 

Katty  sat  upright.  "I  believe  you've  found  the 
key,  Crystal"  (with  her  cheeks  suddenly  flaming). 
"It's  true.  They  are  alike.  Now  I  know  why  I 
loved  you  all  on  first  sight,"  she  laughed  to  Dako- 
vich.  "Face,  eyes,  type,  manner — it's  absolutely 


SERBIA  IN  OXFORDSHIRE          123 

true,  you  might  be  Irish!  Stefan,  you  omadhaun! 
You're  the  melancholy  young  Irishman — the  Cap- 
tain, the  irresponsible — put  nim  in  rags,  he'd  be  the 
Shaughraun.  Everyone  I've  seen  I  can  fit  to  some 
Irish  example.  .  .  ." 

"Ireland  has  not  endured  what  we  have,  Majka," 
Stefan  said,  "but  you  have  told  me  that  she  also 
has  suffered." 

"Suffered!"  Katty's  tone  was  so  vehement  they 
all  turned  to  her.  She  rose  as  she  said  it,  looking 
away  from  them.  "What  injustice  there  is  in  the 
world!"  And  she  walked  off  quickly,  down  the 
grassy  path. 

Stefan  also  rose,  and  would  have  followed  her, 
but  Crystal  shook  her  head.  "My  little  sister  flares 
up  sometimes,  but  the  fire  burns  out  in  a  moment. 
Better  leave  her." 

Boyovich  played  again,  impishly  now,  and  as 
Bobby  and  Finn  McCoul  reappeared,  he  sprang  up 
and  led  the  way  toward  home,  the  children,  Obadiah 
safely  held  aloft,  capering  after  him,  with  Finn 
McCoul  in  almost  hysterical  excitement.  Horace 
followed  with  Crystal,  talking  of  his  Serbian  medi- 
tations, and  Stefan,  patting  Lady  Freke's  hand,  held 
it  firmly  in  his  arm,  and  came  along  with  her,  both 
silent. 

The  three  guests  left  on  the  late  afternoon  train. 
Horace  would  stay  on,  and  Alicia  Norton  (Peter 
and  Aileen's  only  daughter)  was  coming  that  eve- 
ning, Crystal  took  pains  to  say. 

"I  told  you  Crystal  had  an  indomitable  toleration 


124      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

of  girls,"  said  Katty  as  they  waited  for  Dicky  the 
Driver. 

"As  you  have  for  boys,  my  dear,"  agreed  Crystal. 

"I'm  terrified  of  girls,"  confessed  Katty.  "Now 
a  boy,  a  man  ('tis  all  the  same),  is  an  infinitely 
simple  creature.  He  knows  what  he  wants,  you 
know  what  he  wants — you  get  it  for  him  if  you  can 
— a  smoke,  a  game,  a  horse,  a  commission,  a  seat 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  a  wife — but  a  girl! 
She  doesn't  know  what  she  wants,  and  you  dare  not 
tell  her.  No,  give  me  boys!  And  after  nearly  a 
half  century's  experience  of  all  kinds"  (she  smiled 
at  Stefan),  "give  me  Serbian  boys!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 
"THE  ANGRY  GODS" 

ALICIA  NORTON  arrived  on  the  train  that  took  the 
others  to  town.  Horace  went  in  with  them  to  meet 
her,  and  found  her  a  tall,  self-possessed  young 
person,  with  nothing  of  either  Peter  Norton  or 
Aileen's  ease  of  manner,  but  handsome  in  what  he 
characterised  as  the  English  way.  She  was  the 
Norton's  only  child.  Her  sister,  older  by  two  years, 
had  been  killed  in  France,  in  1917. 

Alicia  was  barely  twenty.  Horace  seemed  to  her 
quite  an  old  gentleman,  and  she  did  not  disguise  her 
lack  of  interest  in  him.  To  Crystal  she  was,  if  not 
affectionate,  at  least  smiling  and  friendly;  the 
children  were  apparently  devoted  to  her,  and  she  met 
Finn  McCoul  and  Obadiah  with  flattering  en- 
thusiasm. 

Her  father  and  mother  were  to  follow  at  the  end 
of  the  month.  In  the  meantime  the  household 
settled  into  the  delightful  routine  of  an  informal 
country  cottage.  Horace  sent  for  a  car,  put  the 
chauffeur  up  at  the  Royal  George  (he  valued  his 
own  restful  holiday  far  too  highly  to  run  the  car 
himself),  and  took  the  others  on  long  or  short  jaunts 
all  over  this  lovely  Oxfordshire.  On  warm  days 
they  went  over  to  Shillingford,  where  fair  swim- 

125 


126      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

ming  could  be  had.  But  mostly,  Horace  idled 
happily  in  the  garden,  reading ;  or  wrote  long  letters 
for  South  American  mail  day. 

The  house  ran  on  greased  wheels.  Horace  the 
Epicurean,  finding  everything  he  wished  always  at 
hand,  receiving  no  slightest  jar  from  either  servants 
or  children,  realised  only  that  he  was  comfortable, 
and  that  Crystal  was  probably  an  excellent  house- 
keeper. 

The  image  of  Daphne  receded  in  his  mind. 
Crystal  did  not  press  him  to  tell  her  what  had 
bothered  him  at  the  time  of  his  arrival.  He  did 
indeed  say  one  evening,  when  the  moon  made  for 
romance,  when  Alicia  had  gone  early  to  bed,  and 
Crystal  came  out  to  the  garden  carrying  a  tray  with 
something  tinkling  in  a  glass,  and  stood  a  moment, 
unconsciously  lovely  and  graceful  in  the  moonlight, 
as  she  looked  for  him : 

"My  dearest,  keep  me  always  with  you.  When 
you  are  near  I  am  as  faithful  as  a  dog,  tame  as  a 
cat,  dependable  as  an  old  horse." 

But  Crystal,  tranquilly  busy  those  wonderful  July 
days,  the  world-old  instinct  of  the  woman  making 
the  man  happy  her  only  guide,  took  no  alarm.  He 
must  go  back  to  the  Argentine  in  August  ...  it 
behooved  her  only  to  keep  him  till  then  "a  blithe 
contented  man." 

No  cloud  hung  over  her,  and  all  clouds  must  soon 
disappear  from  this  comfortable  England.  July 
slipped  deliciously  along.  The  papers,  to  be  sure, 
contained  occasional  leading  articles  on  the  Dalma- 
tian business  ...  but  the  papers  did  not  interest 


"THE  ANGRY  GODS"  127 

them  particularly.  Crystal  was  too  happy  and  Hor- 
ace too  idle. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  month  Katty  motored 
down  with  Meredith  Dyfed. 

"The  Pond  House  looked  like  a  safe  Paradise 
from  London  anxieties,"  she  said.  "Of  course  you 
Babes  in  the  Wood  don't  realise  what's  going  on." 

"Do  you  mean  Fiume?"  asked  Alicia  intelli- 
gently. 

"You  forget  that  Alicia  was  never  a  Babe  in  the 
Wood,  Lady  Freke,"  said  Dyfed. 

"True.  You  were  never  a  babe  even  in  the  cradle, 
my  child,"  apologised  Katty.  "Yes  ...  at  Fiume. 
The  apple  cart  is  possibly  going  to  upset." 

"That's  what  it  is  to  know  Mr.  Meredith  Dy- 
fed," offered  Crystal. 

"Meredith  Dyfed!  He  tells  me  nothing.  He's 
been  a  sphinx,  a  gentlemanly  sphinx  in  white  spats 
with  a  Van  Dyke  beard,  this  whole  week  ...  so 
I  know  there's  a  lot  to  be  concealed.  But  I've  had 
a  letter  from  Belgrade,  from  Stefan." 

"How  is  the  adorable  boy?"  asked  Crystal. 

"O  my  dear  ...  if  tragedy  overhangs  that  boy, 
I  won't  be  able  to  bear  it." 

"Why  should  tragedy  hang  over  him,  rather  than 
over  Merton  ...  or  Hazleby?"  said  Alicia  coldly. 

Lady  Freke  looked  quickly  at  the  composed  young 
person.  "Or  Hazleby  .  .  ."  she  smiled  to  herself. 
"Can  you  connect  tragedy  with  my  bouncing,  noisy 
pair?"  she  enquired  aloud.  "And  can  you  fail  to 
connect  it  with  Dakovich?  Not  perhaps  his  own, 
but  his  country's.  Even  an  Irishman  doesn't  love 


128      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Ireland  as  the  Serb  loves  Serbia.  Yet  even  now, 
1919,  the  world  fails  to  understand." 

"What  does  he  write?"  said  Horace. 

"I'll  read  it  to  you."  And  Katty  pulled  a  letter 
from  the  little  grey  hand  bag  she  carried. 

"Dear  Majka: 

The  angry  gods  gather  once  more  to  our  undoing. 
You  have  not  seen  our  beautiful  country.  Perhaps 
now  I  shall  never  show  it  to  you.  No  one  yet  believes 
there  is  new  danger  .  .  .  but  we  know  better,  Captain 
Boyovich  and  I.  They  mean  to  push  us  to  the  wall. 
I  send  this  by  a  safe  friend  to  post  in  Paris.  It  is 
to  say  good-bye.  My  salutations  to  your  sister,  to  the 
good  Mortons,  to  Mr.  Dyfed  and  the  American 
stranger.  And  always,  always,  Majka,  to  yourself.  I 
embrace  your  hand. 

"Your  Stefan." 

"Curiously  unlike  an  American  boy,"  mused 
Horace. 

"Equally  unlike  an  English  one,"  Alicia  said. 

"It's  a  different  race,  a  different  line  of  thought," 
Dyfed  averred.  "But  very  fine,  that  about  the  an- 
gry gods  gathering  once  more  to  undo  them.  You 
for  instance  sometimes  wonder"  (he  addressed 
Katty)  "how  the  Irish  race  has  kept  its  character 
and  beauty  through  these  difficult  centuries  .  .  . 
how  much  more  extraordinary  that  the  Serbian  race 
has  kept  alive  at  all!" 

It  was  a  soft,  warm  afternoon.  They  were  drink- 
ing their  tea  in  the  orchard,  on  the  platform  around 
the  old  apple  tree.  The  air  was  intoxicating  with 


"THE  ANGRY  GODS"  129 

the  smell  of  ripe  plums,  and  over  the  beds  of  mi- 
gnonette the  bees  buzzed  heavily.  Crystal's  guests 
were  all  quiet.  The  young  Montenegrin's  letter 
seemed  to  make  unreal  this  peaceful  English  scene. 

"I  asked  Stefan  once,  in  the  early  days  of  our 
acquaintance,  what  class  he  belonged  to,  what  he 
represented  exactly,"  Katty  said  at  last,  evenly,  as 
one  speaks  about  a  friend  long  gone. 

"I  wish  I  had  your  courage,  Katty."  This  from 
Horace. 

"You  mean  my  cheek.  Well,  he  said,  quite  sim- 
ply, 'Peasant,  Madame.'  Peasant?  'You  mean  the 
farming  class,  the  small  proprietor,'  I  said.  'No, 
Madame,  I  am  a  peasant.  We  are  all  peasants/  'If 
you  are  a  peasant,'  says  I,  'show  me  a  prince.' ' 

"It's  true."  Dyfed  confirmed  this.  "Serbia  is 
ninety  per  cent  peasant,  and  the  remaining  ten  per 
cent  are  the  little  bourgeoisie." 

"Where  are  the  aristocrats,  the  nobles?  It's  a 
kingdom ;  they've  always  had  princes,  a  ruling  class, 
haven't  they?"  demanded  Horace. 

"The  nobles  were  killed  off,  years,  generations, 
even  centuries  ago,  leading  their  followers  against 
the  Turks.  It's  hard  to  realise  from  here  that  we 
owe  the  saving  of  Europe  from  the  Turks  to  that 
one  little  country.  The  people  who  are  left  are 
practically  all  of  one  class,  tillers  of  the  soil.  The 
man  who  owns  the  farm,  the  labourer  whom  he 
hires  to  work  on  it,  are  of  one  class,  peasants." 

"Do  you  honestly  mean  that  Mr.  Dakovich  repre- 
sents a  peasant  class?"  Crystal  begged. 

"Dakovich  would  be  a  fine  type  in  any  class,  in 


130      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

any  country,  but  he  is  not  unusual  in  Serbia.  And 
you  must  remember,  he  is  Montenegrin.  Serb,  it 
is  true,  but  the  finest  Serb." 

"A  peasant  who  looks  like  a  prince  ...  a  plough 
boy  who  writes  like  a  poet  ...  a  whole  nation 
of  these  peasants  who  are  the  princes  of  Europe, 
and  who  are  poets!"  triumphed  Katty. 

"Yes,  speak  to  a  ragged  man  digging  in  a  field," 
Dyfed  went  on.  "He'll  make  you,  then  and  there, 
a  poem.  Not  a  jingle,  but  really  fine  and  dignified 
verses,  often  beautiful." 

"Your  Irish  labourer  can't  do  that,  Katty,"  Hor- 
ace suggested. 

"No,  he'll  be  full  of  rare  turns  and  some  lovely 
imagery  .  .  .  think  of  his  talk  in  poor  Synge's 
Playboy  of  the  Western  World  .  .  .  but  he  won't 
turn  off  a  poem  for  you." 

"Yet  I've  heard  you  say,  Lady  Freke,"  came 
Alicia's  firm,  young  voice,  "that  the  nearest  to  a 
gentleman  was  the  Irish  peasant." 

"More  than  that,"  Katty  answered  with  rising 
colour.  "Every  now  and  then,  out  of  the  meanest 
cabin,  on  the  poorest  Irish  mountain,  comes  a  real 
prince.  The  chiefs,  the  kings,  of  old  days,  whole 
tribes  of  supermen  were  submerged  .  .  .  war,  per- 
secution, famine  .  .  .  don't  let  me  get  started  on 
what  Ireland  has  been  through  .  .  .  but  every  now 
and  then  comes  up  a  true  prince,  a  true  princess; 
or  a  great  general,  a  great  poet.  It's  there,  in  the 
race  .  .  .  sometimes  it  comes  out  to  astound  you." 

"And  if  you  pin  Katty  down,  you'll  discover  the 
prince  must  be  O'Brien  or  O'Neill.  An  O,  anyway. 


'THE  ANGRY  GODS"  131 

She'll  never  admit  a  Mac  to  it!  My  poor  child, 
you  are  only  a  McClinton,"  Crystal  added  to  Be- 
delia,  who  appeared  at  that  moment  with  something 
in  her  arms,  followed  by  Bobby  and  Mr.  Honey. 

"Mummie!"  squealed  Miss  McClinton.  "Mr. 
Honey  found  an  angel  kitten  in  the  pond.  May 
I  keep  it?" 

The  angel  kitten  was  a  most  deplorable  little 
wet,  half-dead  object,  tenderly  wrapped  in  Miss  Mc- 
Clinton's  fresh  pink  frock. 

"Poor,  miserable  little  wretch!"  burst  out  Alicia. 
"We'll  heat  some  milk  for  it  and  put  it  near  the 
fire." 

"I  shall  name  it  Alicia,  after  you,"  said  Bedelia 
gratefully. 

"B'delia,"  remonstrated  Bobby.  "You  ought  to 
name  it  Mr.  Honey,  'cause  Mr.  Honey  found  it. 
Oughtn't  B'delia,  Weelum  Jawge?" 

"Yeh,"  said  Mr.  Honey. 

"Then  he  would  never  have  kittens,"  said  Be- 
delia. "Slie  ought  to  be  named  Alicia,  oughtn't  she, 
Mr.  Honey?" 

"Yeh,"  said  Mr.  Honey. 

"I  shall  name  it  Alicia  Mooney,"  continued  Be- 
delia, "  'cause  it  has  mooney  eyes.  Come  on,  both 
Alicias!" 

The  procession  departed.  The  four  who  were 
left  looked  after  them. 

"Youth!"   said  Dyfed.     "How  enviable!" 

"She's  very  handsome,  Norton's  daughter,"  Hor- 
ace murmured. 

"Meredith  Dyfed  means  them  all.  He  means  we're 


i32      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

the  middle  aged,  the  onlookers,"  Lady  Freke  said, 

pensively. 

"Yet  you  don't  wish  to  be  young  again,  Katty?" 
Crystal  laid  her  hand  on  her  sister's. 

"Never,  never  .  .  .  middle  age  is  more  capable, 
infinitely  more  amusing." 

"And  it's  only  youth,  middle  age  is,"  said  Dy- 
fed.  "Youth,  a  bit  ...  a  bit  ...  not  coarsened 
exactly.  .  .  ." 

"Say  thickened,"  Katty  advised. 

"Middle  age  is  only  thickened  youth?"  Horace 
questioned  it. 

"I'd  be  young  again,  if  I  could,"  Dyfed  said, 
"but  I  wouldn't  have  our  Lady  Freke,  or  Mrs.  Mc- 
Clinton,  a  birthday  less." 

"Do  you  wonder  that  man  has  more  invitations 
to  dinner  than  the  postal  service  can  carry?" 
laughed  Katty.  "But  Horace  there  would  have  us 
all  twenty  years  younger." 

"He's  American,"  Dyfed  commented.  "Your 
country  is  the  country  of  youth.  Age  doesn't  in- 
terest it  yet.  Confound  it,  there's  Wilkins." 

His  chauffeur  could  be  seen  coming  through  the 
orchard  with  a  telegram  in  his  hand. 

Dyfed  excused  himself  and  went  to  meet  him. 
They  observed  that  he  opened  the  envelope  anx- 
iously, not  like  a  man  who  received  telegrams  one  a 
minute,  as  Katty  expressed  it.  He  walked  back  to 
them  slowly,  pausing  to  say, 

"Have  the  car  here  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Wil- 
kins," and  he  added,  to  Katty,  "Your  Dakovich  was 
right,  Lady  Freke.  Serbia  is  mobilising  again." 


"THE  ANGRY  GODS"  133 

"You'll  go  back  to  town  at  once,  of  course.  I'll 
be  ready,"  and  Katty  rose. 

"O  Katty,  you  stay  with  us,"  her  sister  urged. 
"Mr.  Dyfed  doesn't  want  you,  anyway." 

"My  dear,  do  you  think  I'd  miss  a  moment  of 
the  performance?  Meredith  Dyfed  will  probably 
not  throw  me  a  word,  but  I  shall  run  no  risk  of  los- 
ing it  if  he  does." 

"She'll  turn  me  inside  out,  Mrs.  McClinton. 
That's  her  cleverness,  to  convince  you  of  my  dis- 
cretion." And  Dyfed  lighted  a  cigarette,  gloomily. 

"You'll  come  back  next  week,  with  the  Mortons, 
little  sister?" 

"Can  you  put  me  up?"  returned  Katty. 

'I've  taken  some  rooms  at  the  Green  Lion,  close 
by.  I  can  put  up  innumerable  guests.  'That  means 
you,'  Mr.  Dyfed,  as  they  say  on  'Keep  Out'  signs 
at  home.  But  this  is  a  'Come  In'  sign."  Crystal 
looked  kindly  at  Dyfed.  He  was  very  pale,  she 
thought. 

"Thank  you."  He  kissed  her  hand.  (Not  for 
nothing  had  he  lived  in  old  days  so  much  in  Vienna. ) 
"Don't  count  on  Norton;  and  I  can  say  for  myself, 
alas,  that  I  won't  be  able  to  leave  London." 

"Then  it  is  really  serious?"  Crystal  asked. 

"Nothing  can  seem  really  serious  now,"  he 
smiled,  "after  what  we've  been  through.  But  every 
move,  especially  on  the  Balkan  chess  board,  is  im- 
portant." 

Ten  minutes  later  he  handed  Lady  Freke  into  the 
car. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SIR  FRANCIS  MORRILL 

THAT  was  late  July.  Another  beautiful  week 
brought  them  no  special  news,  although  they  tried 
now  to  read  between  the  lines  in  both  Norton's 
and  Dyfed's  papers.  But  like  all  Americans,  and 
most  English,  they  failed,  even  now,  to  feel  more 
than  amusedly  interested  in  a  political  situation  on 
the  Adriatic. 

Alicia  was  writing  her  college  thesis.  Alicia 
Mooney,  Obadiah  and  Finn  McCoul  provided  the 
serious  business  of  life  for  Bedelia.  Her  little 
brother  rejoiced  in  Mr.  Honey's  society.  Crystal 
went  about  her  various  errands,  Horace  with  her. 
He  liked  the  obvious  pleasure  it  gave  the  villagers 
to  have  "Her  oop  to  Pond  House"  pause  for  a  talk 
over  the  hedge  when  potatoes  were  being  dug,  or 
onions  pulled.  Crystal  now  knew  every  soul  in 
Sallum  Prior.  The  serious  interchange  of  gifts 
between  the  Pond  House  and  the  cottages  enter- 
tained our  Buenos  Aires  millionaire  immensely. 
Every  day  a  basket  of  plums  or  green  apples  went 
to  some  villager.  .  .  .  Next  day,  unfailingly,  an  of- 
fering was  quietly  left  with  Mrs.  Rumbold  for  Crys- 
tal ...  generally  a  cauliflower,  it  being  known 
that  the  Pond  House  cauliflowers  had  failed  this 

134 


SIR  FRANCIS  MORRILL  135 

year.  Sometimes  a  bunch  of  highly  coloured  blos- 
soms, or  the  first  blackberries  ...  or  .even  two 
eggs,  still  four  pence  apiece!  .  .  .  but  a  sturdy 
pride  made  it  necessary,  Horace  gathered,  to  return 
something  for  every  gift  from  "Her  oop  to  Pond 
House." 

Shepherd  Gammon  was  now  well  enough  to  hob- 
ble over  Bittums,  every  day  or  so,  to  look  after 
Crystal's  vegetables,  but  not  well  enough  to  work, 
poor  Shepherd.  However,  various  small  boys  from 
the  village,  Mr.  Honey  included,  did  work  at  re- 
munerative rates  under  Shepherd's  stern  eye.  Hor- 
ace liked  to  watch  the  gaunt  figure  and  fine  rugged 
head  of  the  old  man,  as  he  limped  about  the  kitchen 
garden.  He  took  him  home  in  the  car,  and  would 
have  offered  to  send  it  for  him  daily;  but  one  look 
at  the  poor  old  boy's  agonised  face  on  the  first  trip 
was  enough. 

"Thank  ee,  sir,"  said  Shepherd,  stiffly,  as  he  got 
out.  "Legs  was  made  for  walkin'  on.  No  more 
o'  yon  for  me.  It  be  short  way  to  hell." 

The  other  villagers  having  no  such  sentiments, 
Horace  found  much  entertainment  in  sending  or  tak- 
ing them  in  turn  for  motor  rides.  It  was  so  easy 
to  play  Beneficence  down  here  in  this  primitive  ex- 
istence! Crystal  wondered  how  long  the  simple  life 
would  satisfy  him.  For  the  moment  he  was  evi- 
dently wholly  charmed,  and  assured  her  that  he 
would  sell  out  B ovo  and  return  to  Oxfordshire  im- 
mediately to  farm. 

"Uncle  Horace  fancies  himself  no  end  as  a  far- 
mer," Bedelia  confided  to  her  little  brother  with 


136      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

something  of  her  Tante  Katty's  tartness.  "And  he 
couldn't  raise  a  parsnip!" 

But  Horace  did  meditate  rather  seriously  on  a 
gentleman  farmer's  occupation.  A  losing  proposi- 
tion, financially,  of  course,  but  he  was  now  rich 
enough  to  lose  gaily.  He  had  never  studied  grow- 
ing things  before;  the  response  of  the  "good  brown 
earth"  seemed  to  him  a  daily  miracle.  He  wrote 
verses  to  it,  or  perhaps  to  his  own  sensations  upon 
beholding  it  ...  to  Crystal,  tall  and  lovely  as  a 
white  lily  in  her  long  box-bordered  walks;  to  the 
ancient  peace  and  beauty  of  this  walled-in  garden. 
Could  existence,  after  all,  offer  anything  fuller  or 
riper  than  this  well  ordered  alternation  of  comfort 
and  kindness  ? 

Again  he  assured  Crystal  that  he  had  been  con- 
sidering the  matter  seriously  for  a  long  time.  And 
indeed  he  had  dallied  with  it  for  several  days. 

Unfortunately,  the  Nortons  announced  a  visit  at 
this  time.  Horace  was  of  those  people  whose  im- 
agination, ahead  of  reality,  always  saw  the  reflec- 
tion of  himself  in  other  eyes. 

He  could  not,  some  way,  fancy  approval  of  his 
scheme  in  either  Peter  Norton's  abstracted  gaze,  or 
in  Aileen's  slightly  malicious  one. 

"When  do  they  come  down?"   he  asked. 

"Tomorrow." 

"The  devil  they  do!" 

"I  hope  you  won't  mind?"  Crystal  asked  a  little 
anxiously.  But  even  as  she  spoke,  a  perspiring  small 
boy  leaped  from  a  bicycle  at  the  gate,  and  brought 
a  telegram. 


SIR  FRANCIS  MORRILL  137 

"From  Peter  Norton,"  Crystal  read.  "Called  to 
Paris.  Must  postpone  visit.  Thousand  regrets. 
Aileen  motoring  down  alone." 

They  put  off  dinner  till  eight  o'clock,  but  as  Aileen 
did  not  arrive,  and  as  the  arrival  of  Aileen  was  al- 
ways a  delightful  uncertainty,  they  sat  down  with- 
out her. 

At  half  past  eight,  they  heard  the  car  outside  the 
garden  wall. 

"I've  brought  down  the  Morrills,"  Aileen's  voice 
called  out  gaily,  as  Crystal  ran  to  meet  her.  "It 
was  too  harrowing  in  town.  And  Meredith  Dyfed 
said  you  had  plenty  of  room." 

"I  have  indeed,  and  I'm  enchanted  to  see  them. 
Lady  Morrill,  you  know  Alicia,  of  course,  and  this 
is  Mr.  Dimock — Sir  Francis,  Mr.  Dimock,  of 
Buenos  Aires."  Horace  shook  hands  with  a  tall, 
pale,  aquiline  man,  who  might  be  of  any  age  from 
twenty-five  to  forty-five.  Of  Lady  Morrill  he  had 
only  a  glimpse,  as  she  and  Aileen  were  hurried  away 
by  Alicia.  She  seemed  years  older  than  Sir  Fran- 
cis, and  with  little  of  his  fineness.  "Aristocratic," 
Horace  said  to  himself,  "is  a  misused  word,  but 
in  this  case  decidedly  applicable  to  Sir  Francis  Mor- 
rill." 

Dinner  had  been  put  back,  but  in  a  few  moments 
the  party  assembled,  and  Mrs.  Rumbold,  in  her  ele- 
ment, served  a  second  and  incredibly  good  meal. 

"Peter  Norton  is  a  wild  man  this  day,"  said 
Aileen,  as  they  found  themselves  in  their  places. 
"He  says  we'll  be  in  for  another  European  war  if 
the  Conference  doesn't  straighten  out.  I  was  being 


138      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

driven  mad.  I  told  him  to  let  them  have  their  war, 
but  for  heaven's  sake  not  to  bring  it  into  the  bosom 
of  his  family.  So  he  banged  the  door  and  went  off 
to  Paris." 

"You  forget  Dad's  responsibilities,"  said  Alicia, 
as  though  she  were  speaking  to  a  child,  not  to  a 
mother.  The  others  laughed. 

"Does  it  look  very  bad  for  the  League  of  Na- 
tions?" asked  Horace. 

Sir  Francis  Morrill  answered  slowly,  in  his  quiet 
English  voice,  "It  couldn't  look  worse." 

"Which  is  your  fault,  you  Americans!"  said 
Aileen  wickedly. 

Sir  Francis'  pale  face  looked  paler  than  before. 
"Who  can  say?  Yet  if  America  won't  stand  by  us, 
we  may  all,  even  England,  go  under." 

"Ridiculous  nonsense!"  fulminated  Lady  Morrill, 
whom  Horace  now  really  looked  at  for  the  first  time. 
She  was  on  his  right,  but  till  then  had  been  talking 
with  Alicia.  She  was  rather  a  red  faced  woman, 
who  had  probably  been  handsome  in  her  youth. 
Now  she  was  too  tightly  corseted  and  wore  brace- 
lets. 

"I'm  badly  informed,"  said  Horace  with  his  agree- 
able voice.  "I've  never  understood  the  Balkan  ques- 
tion, in  particular,  either  before  or  after  the  war." 

"Nor  has  anyone  else !"  boomed  Lady  Morrill. 

Sir  Francis  continued  as  though  he  had  not  heard 
her,  but  in  a  colder  tone.  "The  Balkan  question 
is  infinitely  more  serious  to  this  country  than  we 
realise.  Our  differentiations  have  been  all  wrong. 
Even  after  war  began  we  petted  Bulgaria  and  neg- 


SIR  FRANCIS  MORRILL  139 

lected  Serbia.  We  had  always  taken  Roumania  at 
her  own  valuation  as  Roman,  and  lumped  the  others 
as  Slav.  We  should  never,  to  go  back,  have  al- 
lowed the  formation  of  the  Albanian  kingdom.  We 
should  never,  never,  have  winked  at  the  Austrian 
annexation  of  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina.  Above  all, 
we  should  have  worked  for  a  Greater  Serbia,  and 
for  the  protection,  through  Serbia,  of  our  own 
routes  to  the  East.  All  this  is  an  old  story  ..." 

"Sir  Francis  was  out  there  a  long  time,"  Aileen 
put  in.  "You're  hearing  an  authority  on  the  Near 
East." 

"Abominable  countries!"  commented  Lady  Mor- 
rill.  "But  I  wasn't  cut  out  for  a  diplomat's  wife." 

Horace  could  see  that  she  certainly  wasn't.  He 
wished  very  much  to  talk  to  her  husband,  but  as 
he  himself  was  between  Aileen  and  Lady  Morrill, 
and  as  Sir  Francis  was  evidently  being  soothed  by 
Crystal's  gentle  attention,  he  had  no  immediate  op- 
portunity. 

After  dinner  they  walked  to  the  Big  House,  the 
Manor  of  Sallum  Prior,  whose  owners  were  away 
in  Italy.  And  Horace  and  Morrill  made  lighting 
their  cigars  an  excuse  for  falling  behind  the  four 
women. 

"You  are  plainly  not  happy  about  the  situation, 
Sir  Francis,"  said  Horace,  as  they  passed  into  the 
long  avenue  that  led  up  to  the  Big  House. 

His  companion  laughed  a  little  ruefully.  "You 
know  us  well  enough,  Mr.  Dimock,  to  be  prepared 
for  more  colossal  blunders  on  our  part." 


I4o      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"They  will  be  the  blunders  of  democracy,"  an- 
swered Horace.  "My  own  country  is  not  one  to 
look  askance." 

"Your  blunders  are  made  at  home,  within  your 
own  borders — (almost  too  much  so,  if  you'll  for- 
give me!)  Ours,  the  worst  ones,  that  is,  are  made 
abroad,"  said  the  Englishman. 

"Where  is  the  particular  blunder  now?"  asked 
the  American. 

Francis  Merrill  looked  a  moment  through  the 
great  trees  before  he  answered.  "On  the  Adriatic. 
We  are  again  face  to  face  with  a  crisis.  And  we 
are  again  absurdly  unprepared." 

"I  shall  put  my  money  on  England,  just  the 
same,"  laughed  Horace. 

"You  mean  we'll  muddle  through?  Yes,  prob- 
ably. Yet  what  complications  we  might  save  out 
there!  My  own  party  is  in  power,  but  convinced 
Liberal  as  I  am,  I  know  the  other  side  to  be  more 
sensitive  to  what  affects  our  honour  as  a  nation." 

Horace  looked  at  him  curiously.  Politics  was 
really  a  great  game  in  this  country.  He  hoped  he 
would  be  as  sensitive  to  what  affected  America's 
good  name.  Our  quibbling  on  the  Panama  ques- 
tion occurred  to  him,  and  our  hesitation  in  entering 
the  war.  Had  he  not  blushed  for  his  own  people? 
He  liked  to  think  so.  But  Francis  Morrill  was  evi- 
dently deeply  concerned  with  what  was,  so  far,  a 
possibility  only.  He  did  not  say,  and  the  Ameri- 
can would  not  ask,  what  he  feared.  But  it  was  not 
difficult  to  formulate.  Would  England,  that  was 
what  he  was  thinking,  would  England  stand  by  the 


SIR  FRANCIS  MORRILL  141 

little  peoples?  Would  she  sacrifice  her  Italian  in- 
terests to  the  hypothetical  rights  of  the  new  Jugo- 
slavia? Would  she  play  the  game  as  your  true 
sportsman,  as  Sir  Francis  Morrill,  would  have  her 
play  it? 

"The  saving  thing  with  your  people,"  he  said 
aloud,  unconsciously  revealing  his  thoughts,  "is  that 
you  play  to  play.  It  makes  for  a  square  deal.  Other 
nations  play  to  win." 

"I  believe  the  square  deal,  as  you  call  it,"  an- 
swered Morrill,  obviously  pleased,  "is  in  the  Eng- 
lish, as  it  is  in  the  American,  blood.  Lady  Freke 
would  tell  you  we'd  not  been  square  with  Ireland. 
And  she's  right.  But  elsewhere  .  .  ." 

"Francis!"  came  Lady  Merrill's  voice.  "Mrs. 
McClinton  is  taking  us  home  by  the  lower  gate." 

They  all  met  in  the  great  sweep  of  lawn  between 
the  Big  House  and  the  carriage  way.  A  light  in 
a  smaller  upper  window  was  probably  a  servant's. 
Otherwise,  the  enormous  old  mansion  was  dark.  It 
was  past  ten,  but  the  English  twilight  is  slow  to 
leave.  Around  them  rose  huge  trees.  The  fields 
sloped  away  from  them  toward  the  old  Icknield 
Way,  and  up  again  to  the  Chilterns.  No  lights  to 
be  seen  anywhere;  the  country  silent  and  beautiful 
under  the  luminous  July  night. 

"It's  hard  to  realise  your  England  is  an  island, 
and  a  little  island,  when  one  looks  at  these  endless 
woods  and  meadows,"  said  Horace. 

"Yet  one's  comfort  at  some  moments,"  responded 
Morrill,  "is  in  remembering  that  we  are  on  an  island, 


142      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

that  the  sea  surrounds,  and  always  has  surrounded 
England,  whatever  airships  may  do." 

"I'm  tired,"  his  wife  announced.  "How  do  we 
go  home?" 

Horace  offered  her  his  arm,  on  which  she  at 
once  leaned  heavily. 

"Let's  go  down  'Wormcraft,'  "  advised  Crystal. 
"It's  the  short  cut  from  here." 

"Another  trace  of  the  Dragon?"  asked  Sir 
Francis. 

"Yes.  Saint  George  had  one  of  his  numerous 
fights  with  the  Dragon,  so  we  like  to  believe,  right 
here,  on  that  hill  side.  The  Dragon,  or  as  you  evi- 
dently know  they  say  hereabouts,  the  Worm,  was 
almost  too  clever  for  Saint  George,  and  the  lane 
there  is  called  'Wormcraft'  to  this  day.  That  at 
least  is  the  story." 

"Wormcraft"  led  to  the  "Hill  Road,"  and  that 
into  "Cheesefoot."  Aileen  and  her  daughter  had 
chosen  to  be  put  up  at  the  Green  Lion,  where  Crys- 
tal had  taken  some  funny  little  old  rooms  for  the 
summer.  The  men  walked  down  with  them  while 
Crystal  and  Lady  Morrill  turned  in  at  the  Pond 
House  gate. 

"Your  American  women  are  wonderful,"  said  Sir 
Francis.  "They  are  teaching  us  a  lot.  But  I  don't 
know  anywhere  two  more  delightful  ones  than  Mrs. 
McClinton  and  Katty  Freke." 

"Yet  you've  probably  heard  Katty  say,"  an- 
swered Horace,  "that  she  prays  her  sons  will  marry 
English  or  Irish  wives." 

"Yes,"  Francis  Morrill  agreed.     "But  she  also 


SIR  FRANCIS  MORRILL  143 

says  if  she  had  a  daughter  she'd  pray  for  an  Ameri- 
can husband  for  her." 

"What  does  her  English  husband  say  to  that?" 

"Oh,  Freke!"  laughed  Merrill.  "He's  still 
charmed  with  everything  she  says." 

Next  morning  the  Merrills  were  for  returning 
early  to  town.  But  Aileen  said  calmly  that  nothing 
would  induce  her  to  go  back  to  Peter  Norton,  for 
a  day  or  two  at  any  rate.  They  were  all  used  to 
Aileen's  vagaries,  even  Lady  Morrill,  and  the  morn- 
ing was  so  lovely  that  when  Crystal  said,  as  they 
lingered  over  their  breakfast  in  the  garden.  "Why 
don't  you  nice  people  stay  down  too?"  even  Lady 
Morrill  consented. 

"There's  nothing  I  can  do  in  town,"  confessed  her 
husband.  "I'm  not  persona  grata  at  the  Foreign 
Office  just  now,  and  if  Mrs.  McClinton  is  angelic 
enough  to  keep  a  gloomy  guest,  I  can't  say  how 
grateful  I  am  to  be  out  of  London." 

"We  were  dining  tonight  with  your  mother,  and 
Sunday  with  Lady  Freke,"  his  wife  reminded  him. 

"Your  mother  won't  mind,  Francis,  if  you  tele- 
graph her  off,"  affirmed  Aileen,  "and  suppose  we 
all  go  up  on  Sunday  and  dine  with  Katty?" 

The  next  two  days  were  warm  and  lovely.  Fran- 
cis Morrill,  for  all  his  intention  of  avoiding  town, 
went  two  miles  every  morning  to  the  nearest  tele- 
phone station,  but  said  little  of  politics,  English 
or  European.  Yet  Horace  divined  an  absorbing 
anxiety. 

"If  Francis  were  lighted  from  the  inside  by  a 


144      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

holy  candle,"  said  Aileen,  "he  couldn't  look  more 
like  a  wax  saint." 

"More  shame  to  us  to  understand  so  little  what 
it  all  means  to  him,"  responded  Crystal,  who  did 
not  know  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  she  had 
kept  him.  If  he  had  not  been  there  the  others 
would  have  considered  little  beyond  the  tranquillity 
of  the  moment. 

On  their  last  day  Crystal  insisted  on  their  all 
motoring  over  to  Oxford.  Perhaps  his  old  college 
would  distract  Sir  Francis.  But  he  wandered  about 
like  a  lost  spirit.  Even  the  beauty  of  the  gardens 
of  St.  John's,  where,  if  anywhere,  poor  Morrill 
thought  he  would  find  rest,  failed  to  interest  him. 
They  dined  in  a  funny  old  inn  where  the  joint  they 
ordered  for  the  meal  was  unhooked  from  its  nail 
over  the  driveway.  The  food  of  England  might 
still  be  limited,  but  this  dinner  was  delicious. 

They  didn't  talk  much  as  they  motored  home, 
although  when  Horace  stopped  the  car  to  look  back 
at  the  towers  and  spires  of  Oxford  in  the  twilight, 
Aileen  said,  "Oxford  is  one  of  Katty's  Three 
Towns.'  " 

"I  should  think  Lady  Freke  would  claim  thirty 
sooner  than  three,"  Horace  took  her  up.  "What 
are  her  three?" 

"Siena,  Oxford,  Cork." 

"Extraordinary  choice!"  disapproved  Lady  Mor- 
rill. 

"But  how  like  Katty!"  Francis  Morrill  smiled 
for  the  first  time  that  day.  "She  is  a  wonderful 
person." 


SIR  FRANCIS  MORRILL  145 

When  they  reached  the  Pond  House  they  found 
a  characteristic  telegram  from  the  lady  in  question. 

"Expect  you  all  six  tomorrow,  eight  o'clock  dinner, 
you  lucky  ones  in  peaceful  Oxfordshire.  Here  Dal- 
matian fat  in  fire.  Imagine  my  anxiety  Stefan.  What 
will  your  blessed  England  do?  God  save  Ireland  any- 
how. KATTY  FREKE." 

"Yes,  Katty  is  a  wonder,"  thought  Horace,  very 
thankful  Crystal  wasn't. 

They  all  drove  to  town  next  afternoon  in  the 
Merrill's  car,  the  luggage  in  Horace's.  Crystal 
went  up  the  orchard  at  the  last  moment  to  get  some 
lavender  for  Katty,  and  there  Horace  followed  her. 
She  looked  very  handsome,  he  said  to  himself,  in 
her  big  white  blanket  coat,  a  close  white  turban 
on  her  brown  hair. 

"What  is  it,  dearest?"  he  asked.  "You  look  sad- 
der than  a  world  at  peace  warrants." 

"I  shouldn't  let  private  worries  count  when  pub- 
lic ones  are  so  splendidly  over,  should  I  ?"  she  smiled 
at  him,  although  her  grey  eyes  were  very  near  tears. 
"I'm  having  the  most  mid-Victorian  sentiments, 
Horace." 

"Why?" 

"Why,  indeed?  But  it's  as  though  I  were  seeing 
something  or  someone  for  the  last  time  ...  a 
presentiment!  surely  that's  mid-Victorian?  .  .  . 
that  all  this  will  never  be  the  same  again." 

Horace,  looking  at  the  beautiful  loving  creature, 
at  the  beautiful,  placid  country,  felt  a  stab  at  the 
heart.  "Don't  let's  go,"  he  said. 


146      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

The  waiting  motors  both  sounded  their  horns,  and 
Bedelia  and  Bobby,  who  had  been  showing  Mr. 
Honey  and  the  smaller  live  stock  to  the  chauffeurs, 
came  dashing  up  the  orchard  path.  "Mummie! 
everybody's  waiting." 

Bedelia  carried  Obadiah;  and  Bobby,  Alicia 
Mooney.  Mr.  Honey  followed. 

"It's  not  a  question  of  choice,  you  see!"  Crystal 
said  with  a  catch  in  her  voice.  "Kiss  Mummie,  kid- 
dies, and  say  good-bye  here.  You'll  be  very  good 
till  tomorrow?  I  won't  forget  the  rewards  of 
merit." 

"Don't  forget  a  water-mellit  for  Mr.  Honey,  too, 
will  you,  Mummie?"  her  son  demanded. 

Horace  looked  over  the  quiet  Oxford  country 
with  as  melting  eyes  as  Crystal's.  It  was  wonder- 
ful to  look  at  her  too,  in  her  old  world  setting,  this 
modern  American,  whose  ancestors  had  perhaps 
stepped  on  this  very  spot  of  earth. 

"It's  been  exquisite,  Crystal,"  he  said,  "all  this. 
I  can  truly  say  I've  had  the  happiest  four  weeks 
of  my  life." 

"You  see?  You  say  have.  You  feel  as  I  do, 
that  it's  over." 

"Why  should  it  be,  my  dear  girl?"  and  even 
as  Horace  spoke,  he  seemed  to  see  a  slender  figure 
in  a  knitted  shawl,  with  braids  around  a  dark  head. 


CHAPTER  X 
KATTY'S  DINNER 

DINNER  that  evening,  as  Lady  Freke  said,  was  a 
family  party.  Norton,  whom  they  had  not  expect- 
ed, telephoned  at  eight  to  ask  if  he  might  come,  so 
they  waited  till  half  past.  Meredith  Dyfed  was 
there,  and  for  Alicia,  the  only  girl,  Katty  had  asked 
a  man  they  all  loved,  Allen  Pearce,  the  landscape 
painter,  a  bachelor  of  thirty-five,  tall  and  kindly, 
with  a  rumbling  voice. 

"The  first  time  we've  all  been  together  since  the 
beginning  of  the  war!" 

They  all  said  it;  and  Horace,  looking  keenly 
around  the  table,  added  to  himself  that  any  member 
of  that  brilliant  and  lovable  little  circle  was  for- 
tunate indeed.  Even  Lady  Morrill  seemed  soft- 
ened, and  in  a  sort  of  tawny  velvet  looked  almost 
handsome. 

"We  mustn't  ask  the  news  from  the  Peace  Table, 
I  suppose,  Peter?"  said  Katty  tentatively,  for  Nor- 
ton had  that  day  returned  from  Paris. 

Norton  smiled  at  her  absently.  "What's  the  use  ?" 
he  asked,  with  a  rare  touch  of  the  brogue.  "Who 
can  say  what  will  come  of  it?  Above  all  what  are 
we  doing,  we  English,  and  what  will  we  do?" 

"You'll  play  the  game!"  Katty  took  him  up. 


i48      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"You're  splendid,  Lady  Freke,"  rumbled  Allen 
Pearce.  "I  wish  all  Americans  accepted  us  at  your 
valuation." 

"They  will  some   day,"   Horace  said  seriously. 

"But,  Norton,"  Sir  Francis  asked,  "what's  the 
feeling  now,  with  all  of  us  dead  tired  of  war  talk, 
and  these  new  complications?" 

"We're  men  walking  at  midnight,"  answered  Nor- 
ton, with  a  rapt  look,  like  a  seer.  "Men  who  don't 
know  if  they  will  ever  see  dawn,  but  knowing  they 
have  once  seen  it  red  with  blood  .  .  .  yet  not 
afraid." 

The  others  sat  motionless.  You  might  not  agree 
with  Peter  Norton,  but  he  always  held  you. 

"Fundamentally,  we're  sound,"  he  went  on. 
"We've  proved  that  since  1914.  Let  no  man  say 
the  contrary.  But  it  may  take  time  to  see  soundly, 
more  to  act  so.  I  cannot  believe  my  England  will 
fail  the  world,  materially  or  spiritually." 

"Your  England,  you  Irishman,  will  fail  neither 
way!"  said  Katty. 

"Yet  it  was  curious,  you  must  have  observed  it, 
Peter,"  mused  Dyfed,  "that  in  those  early  days  of 
1914  nobody  dared  look  anyone  else  in  the  eye." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  not?"  trumpeted  Lady 
Morrill. 

"You  know  too  well,  my  dear.  We  all  know," 
said  her  husband,  paler  than  his  wont.  "We  were 
afraid  we  wouldn't  stand  by,  that  we  would  let 
France  and  Belgium  go  under." 

"Ridiculous  nonsense!"   this  again   from  Lady 


KATTY'S  DINNER  149 

Merrill.  "And  why  talk  now  about  the  war? 
Tiresome,  I  call  it." 

"Tiresome!"  thought  Horace.  That  was  it. 
Tiresome!  What  a  way  to  sum  up  the  tragic  drama 
they  had  emerged  from!  Yet  so  all  the  world  re- 
garded it  ...  his  own  countrymen  and  women  per- 
haps most  of  all.  Tiresome!  Now  if  he  himself 
felt  like  that,  it  would  be  excusable.  He  had  been 
in  South  America  most  of  the  time,  out  of  touch, 
except  in  so  far  as  his  business  kept  him  in  touch. 
Katty  would  have  said  a  little  scornfully  that  mak- 
ing a  fortune  out  of  the  war  wasn't  being  out  of 
touch  with  it. 

Still  (Horace  reddened  to  himself  a  little)  hadn't 
he  offered  his  services  at  once  to  his  own  govern- 
ment when  America  entered  the  war?  And  hadn't 
Washington  responded  that  he  was  far  more  useful 
where  he  was,  supplying  the  world,  not  to  speak 
of  the  Allied  armies,  with  "Bovo?" 

And  hadn't  Crystal  kept  him  informed  as  to  her 
own  and  Katty's  multitudinous  activities?  Hadn't 
he  contributed  on  a  princely  scale  .  .  .  even  Katty 
called  it  princely  ...  to  their  war  work?  Katty's 
Belgian  refugees,  Crystal's  distracted  French  ones? 
Hadn't  he  given  $50,000?  To  be  sure  he  bore  no 
marks  of  the  turmoil,  unlike  Dyfed  and  Norton,  who 
had  lost,  the  first  an  only  and  beloved  brother;  the 
second,  a  daughter;  and  who  showed  the  haggard 
traces  of  personal  grief  in  their  public  preoccupa- 
tion. Allen  Pearce,  too,  although  he  was  a  good 
thirty-five,  had  spent  four  ghastly  years  in  the 
trenches,  like  any  boy.  These  men  bore  the  marks. 


ISO     AVHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

They  were  all  drawn  and  pale.  Allen  Pearce, 
youngest  of  the  three,  had  gone  quite  white.  Was 
he  in  love  with  Alicia?  Horace  knew  from  his 
own  observation  that  a  man,  to  keep  young,  must 
always  be  in  love,  with  someone,  something  .  .  . 
Norton  was  in  love  with  his  idea  of  England,  Dyfed 
with  journalism,  Morrill?  a  question  there.  Cer- 
tainly he  couldn't  be  in  love  with  Lady  Morrill.  He 
came  back  to  Allen  Pearce.  Yes,  Katty  had  put  him 
next  Alicia.  Undoubtedly  that  was  it.  Horace's 
mind,  at  rest  there,  went  back  to  the  war. 

He  was  between  Lady  Morrill  and  Aileen,  who 
talked  across  him,  of  someone  he  didn't  know,  so 
that  he  was  at  liberty  for  a  moment  to  reflect. 

Did  the  women  show  the  strain?  He  had  heard 
Lady  Morrill  say  she  had  lost  twelve  nephews  and 
cousins  in  the  war.  He  looked  from  her  flushed, 
hard  face  to  her  husband's  fine  pale  one  .  .  .  un- 
derstanding that  while  she  could  lose,  it  would  be 
only  Morrill  who  would  suffer.  (What  was  it  some- 
body had  said  of  Francis  Morrill?  That  he  was 
lighted  from  within?)  From  Lady  Morrill  to 
Aileen  Norton.  Her  gay  smile  held  him.  Yet 
Aileen  had  lost  her  older  daughter,  sacrificed  as 
surely  as  the  boys  had  been  sacrificed  ...  at  the 
front,  driving  her  ambulance.  Alicia  had,  bless- 
edly, been  too  young  to  go.  Those  Norton  girls 
had  their  father's  indomitable  spirit.  But  Horace, 
in  that  gay  smile  of  Aileen's,  saw  that  it  was  their 
mother's  spirit  too. 

Aileen  was  the  only  woman  in  black.  Alicia  wore 
only  a  black  band  around  her  primrose  sleeve.  Hor- 


KATTY'S  DINNER  151 

ace's  eyes  travelled  appreciatively  to  Crystal,  in 
white  as  always.  What  a  beautiful  woman  she 
was!  After  all,  American  women  were  the  most 
beautiful  to  American  men,  as  he  supposed  English 
women  were  to  English  men.  He  looked  across 
at  Crystal  with  new  ardour.  At  night  one  saw 
only  the  beauty,  the  smooth,  softly  coloured  cheek 
above  the  long  fine  neck;  those  tiny  wrinkles  he 
had  seen  at  the  Pond  House  were  lost  in  the  pale 
gold  of  the  candles. 

From  her  to  Katty  .  .  .  lively  little  grey-satined 
figure  with  the  wicked  black  rosette  in  the  white 
hair  .  .  .  Really,  Katty  was  astonishing.  There 
was  a  woman  to  grace  the  head  of  a  table!  Yet 
Horace,  who  saw  all  things  in  the  terms  of  his 
own  relation  to  them,  wondered  if  it  wouldn't  get 
on  a  man's  nerves  a  bit  to  sit  too  long  opposite  that 
knowing  glance?  He  turned  to  Crystal's  gentle  un- 
critical gaze  with  relief.  Those  grey  large  eyes 
would  never  regard  him  with  anything  but  sweet- 
ness. He  was  indeed  a  lucky  man.  And  Crystal 
had  suffered  in  the  war.  Not  like  those  who  had 
lost  their  nearest,  but  with  a  vicarious  suffering; 
he  could  imagine  her  as  a  Madonna  of  all  the  Sor- 
rows, mourning  for  other  women's  sons.  He  liked 
to  think  that  Crystal  had  suffered.  It  enriched  his 
own  possession  of  her. 

Katty,  by  a  miracle,  had  lost  no  one.  Her  boys 
had  come  to  England  at  the  first  word  of  need, 
although  Merton  was  only  eighteen,  Hazleby  six- 
teen. Both  had  trained  as  fliers,  and  had  already 
a  fair  experience  when  their  own  country  came  in, 


152      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

and  they  had  transferred  to  the  American  service. 

The  war  over,  neither  of  them  scathed,  they  had, 
by  some  special  favour — Horace  suspected  their 
clever  mother  of  adroit  wire  pulling — been  sent  out 
to  Mesopotamia  as  observers  for  the  American  In- 
telligence Department — and  there  they  were  near 
Sir  Blundell  Freke,  their  devoted  step-father. 

Blundell  Freke  was  probably  bored  enough  by 
now  with  his  life  out  there,  yet  his  step-sons,  whom 
Francis  Morrill  had  told  Horace  he  adored  almost 
as  much  as  he  did  their  mother,  must  be  a  comfort 
to  him.  But  why  didn't  they  all  come  home?  Men 
like  that  shouldn't  be  kept  at  the  grind  when  lesser 
individuals  could  take  their  places.  He,  Horace, 
wouldn't  have  stuck  it  out.  Tiresome  .  .  .  yes,  that 
was  the  word.  After  all,  he  felt  it  himself.  Tire- 
some. Only  now  he  felt  that  his  feeling  was  a 
natural  reaction  against  the  long  suspense,  the  in- 
evitable need  of  a  fine  mind  for  more  constructive 
occupation.  Blundell's  mind  was  not  so  fine  as  his. 
It  was  the  regulation  English  official  mind,  dog- 
gedly faithful  of  course,  dying  at  its  post  if  need 
be,  but  to  the  keen  American  a  little  .  .  .  well, 
tiresome,  like  the  war. 

"You're  summing  us  all  up,  Horace  Dimock," 
came  Aileen's  light  voice.  "Confess !  You're  think- 
ing the  old  England  is  done  for,  and  that  your 
country  is  to  lead  the  world." 

"If  you  can  mind-read,  Madame,  I  can  too.  You 
would  like  to  say,  my  'vulgar  country.'  " 

"So  far  as  wealth  means  vulgarity,"  Aileen  re- 
torted, "I  suppose  I  should.  Peter  Norton  says 


KATTY'S  DINNER  153 

the  world's  banker  will  be  New  York,  and  not  Lon- 
don. Can  you  expect  any  Britisher  to  like  that?" 
"Is  international  friendliness  to  be  measured  in 
terms  of  exchange?  I  thought  we  had  all  brought 
a  greater  altruism  out  of  the  war  than  that !"  Hor- 
ace knew  his  own  remark  to  be  sound,  not  sense. 
For  was  he  not  himself  astutely  preparing  to  make 
another  fortune  as  soon  as  ever  English  sterling 
dropped  to  half  its  present  value  in  New  York  dol- 
lars? Or  even  to  two  thirds? 

"It  was  a  dear  little  dinner,"  Crystal  wrote  later 
to  Merton,  who  was  her  favourite  nephew,  "like  all 
your  Mater's  dinners — comfy  talk  and  good  food. 
But  a  curious  bewilderment  hung  over  all  of  us. 
We've  lived  up  so  long  to  high  standards,  concrete 
ones  that  we  were  all  able  to  grasp,  that  now  every- 
thing, even  an  ideal,  seems  vague.  We  all  wish  to  grasp 
the  bigger  issue;  and  not  one  of  us,  I  include  even 
brilliant  minds  like  Mr.  Dyfed's  and  Mr.  Norton's, 
not  one  of  us  knows  exactly  what  it  is.  Most  of  all 
is  the  English-American  situation  in  a  fog.  Come 
home  soon,  you  and  Hazleby,  to  lighten  it  a  little, 
especially 

"For  your  devoted 

"TANTE  CRYSTAL." 


CHAPTER  XI 

DAPHNE  AGAIN 

CRYSTAL  returned  next  day  to  the  Pond  House 
as  she  had  promised.  Horace  put  her  into  her  train 
at  Paddington,  but  as  he  stood  by  the  window,  wait- 
ing for  her  departure,  she  noticed  that  he  did  not 
lift  his  eyes  to  hers.  He  was  to  follow  her  in  a 
few  days,  he  protested  re-assuringly,  looking  more 
handsome  than  ever  in  his  dark  blue,  the  straw  hat 
over  his  fine  brow.  But  he  did  not  look  up.  Some 
instinct  told  Crystal  not  to  go;  above  all,  to  keep 
Horace  within  reach,  but  she  scorned  herself  for 
this.  And,  "Crystal's  way,"  as  Katty  said,  dis- 
dained to  lift  a  finger  to  her  own  profit. 

Walking  away  from  the  huge,  grimy  station, 
Horace  let  himself  believe  that  a  sudden  impulse 
made  him  hail  a  taxi,  and  give  the  direction  of  that 
remote  cloister  in  the  wide  mean  street.  But  he 
had  really  planned  it  all  day. 

Sister  Martina  remembered  him  with  obvious 
pleasure.  She  would  ask  Reverend  Mother  at  once 
if  he  might  see  Sister  Mary  of  the  Incarnation.  It 
was  of  course  customary  to  write  in  advance  when 
one  visited  there,  but  as  he  was  going  away  it 
might  be  arranged. 

In  a  few  moments  he  found  himself  in  the  little 
154 


DAPHNE  AGAIN  155 

room  standing  nervously  by  the  grill.  Daphne  did 
not  keep  him  waiting,  but  she  said  at  once,  "Hor- 
ace! It  must  be  something  serious  brings  you 
here?" 

She  had  paused  at  the  door  as  she  said  it,  and 
as  he  did  not  answer  came  toward  the  grill  slowly, 
her  beautiful  eyes  full  of  concern. 

He  remained  silent.  What  indeed  could  he  say? 
How  account  for  his  presence  there?  How  retain 
any  dignity  in  her  estimation? 

"Horace!      Has  anything   dreadful   happened?" 

"No."  He  found  voice  at  last.  "Nothing  has 
happened,  except  to  me.  The  incredible  has  hap- 
pened to  me,  Daphne." 

"The  incredible?  Do  you  mean  ...  a  miracle? 
Do  you  mean  .  .  .  O  Horace!"  She  came  close  to 
the  grill. 

"My  God!  can  you  guess,  Daphne?" 

The  girl  drew  back,  the  light  dying  from  her 
face.  "I've  guessed  wrong,  I  fear.  I  thought  for 
a  moment  you  meant  you  had  got  back  your  faith." 

"My  faith?"  Horace  nearly  shouted.  "My 
faith!  No,  my  girl.  Listen  to  me.  I'm  in  love 
with  you.  I've  fallen  in  love  with  a  holy  nun!" 

Daphne  stood  absolutely  still,  her  hands  by  her 
side,  her  widely  opened  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 

"They're  more  like  mountain  lakes  than  ever," 
Horace  said  aloud,  unconscious  that  he  was  speak- 
ing. "Blue  and  clear  as  mountain  lakes.  No,  blue 
and  green  and  clear.  Do  you  know  that  you're 
beautiful,  Daphne?  Do  you  know  that  your  eyes 


156      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

are  like  mountain  lakes?"  He  knew  now  that  he 
was  speaking  aloud,  and  waited  for  an  answer. 

A  slight  movement  of  her  head  as  though  life 
came  back  to  it  was  the  only  response. 

"Do  you  understand  me?  I'm  in  love  with  you. 
It's  out  of  a  clear  sky.  I've  loved  many  times  be- 
fore. Does  that  shock  you,  my  dear?  But  this 
is  like  nothing  else.  It's  a  kind  of  divine  madness. 
Is  that  because  I  love  a  holy  nun?" 

At  the  word  nun  she  shuddered.  "God  forgive 
you,"  she  said.  And  paused,  as  though  she  medi- 
tated flight,  but  could  not  move.  "No.  God  for- 
give me.  It  must  be  my  fault  .  .  .  my  sin.  If  I 
were  a  real  nun  this  couldn't  have  happened.  If  I 
had  the  true  vocation  .  .  ." 

"You're  not  a  nun  yet,"  he  said  almost  roughly. 
"You  haven't  the  vocation.  Your  vocation  is  love. 
Otherwise  how  could  you  have  made  me  like  this 
.  .  .  mad,  crazy,  at  my  age,  at  this  time?  But, 
Daphne,  while  you  still  can,  come  out  into  the  world 
.  .  .  leave  this  back  water  .  .  .  leave  your  Middle 
Ages  for  real  life,  even  if  you  won't  leave  for  me!" 

"Leave!"  said  Daphne,  with  a  sudden  haughti- 
ness. "I  shall  never  leave,  Uncle  Horace.  You 
are  either  mad  or  ill.  You  are  certainly  not  your- 
self. If  ever  I  was  in  doubt  as  to  my  vocation,  now 
I  know  that  I  belong  here.  Now  I  know  what  this 
place  means  to  me  ...  safety  from  the  horrors 
outside." 

"Am  I  one  of  the  horrors  ?"  Even  in  his  despera- 
tion Horace  had  to  smile  a  little. 

"It's  all  horrible,  compared  to  this.    It's  all  wrong 


DAPHNE  AGAIN  157 

outside.  Only  here  is  there  peace,  and  beauty,  and 
height  and  depth.  And  even  here  .  .  ."  (a  puz- 
zled look  crossed  her  face).  "How  came  you  here, 
alone?  Where  is  Sister  Martina?" 

"She  was  called  to  the  entrance  just  as  I  came 
up.  She'll  be  back  in  a  moment.  I'll  go,  Daphne. 
Not  for  the  whole  of  creation  would  I  distress  you. 
But,  Daphne  .  .  .  will  you  not  give  me  one  word 
before  I  go?" 

Even  at  this  unnatural  and  intense  moment  he 
was  amused  to  observe  how  masterfully  she  took 
charge  of  the  situation.  His  little  Daphne  .  .  . 
"She'll  be  Superior  of  her  Order"  .  .  .  was  it 
Katty  said  that? 

"This  is  so  unprecedented  I  can't  imagine  what 
one  ought  to  do.  I  can  only  trust  you,  Uncle  Hor- 
ace, not  to  repeat  it."  (She  might  be  forty,  he 
twenty.)  "It  humiliates  me,  quite  aside  from  my 
position  as  a  postulant  here,  to  see  you  .  .  .  whom 
I've  always  looked  up  to  ...  so,  so  unlike  your- 
self." She  paused,  listening.  "I  hear  dear  Sister 
Martina.  Good-bye,  Uncle  Horace,  for  always.  Al- 
ways." 

"No,"  said  Horace,  in  a  deep  voice,  "it  is  not  for 
always."  But  as  the  door  knob  turned,  heralding 
Sister  Martina,  he  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  step 
forward  as  though  he  were  leaving. 

The  little  old  Sister  was  out  of  breath  and  apolo- 
getic. "I  was  kept  at  the  door,"  she  explained. 
But  Horace  hastily  shook  her  hand  and  begged 
her  to  let  him  go  down  without  her.  This  must 
have  been  against  the  rules,  for  he  heard  her  as  he 


158      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

hurried  away,  following  him  with  her  slow,  shuffling 
step. 

Horace  walked  the  length  of  the  street  he  so  dis- 
liked, without  realising  it,  and  on  through  other 
streets  till  he  turned  into  the  Bayswater  Road,  and 
so,  after  a  while,  into  Kensington  Gardens.  His 
prevailing  sensation  was  astonishment  at  himself. 
...  To  be,  at  his  age,  still  capable  of  so  over- 
whelming an  emotion!  To  have  fallen  in  love,  as 
he  had  said  to  Daphne,  with  a  holy  nun!  with  a 
child,  half  his  years,  with  Leonora's  daughter,  with 
a  young  creature  he  had  almost  disliked.  .  .  .  As- 
tounding! Was  he,  then,  himself,  phenomenally 
young,  to  be  capable  of  this?  He,  Horace,  bound 
to  Crystal? 

Crystal ! 

It  was  characteristic  of  Horace  that  he  had  let 
no  thought  of  Crystal  obtrude  itself  till  now.  He 
had  been  conscious,  he  told  himself,  of  her  sur- 
prised eyes  and  her  tall  white  figure  .  .  .  but  only 
dimly  so,  in  the  background  of  this  absorbing,  this 
enthralling  experience.  But  now  she  came  forward. 
It  was  almost  as  though  she  stood  there  under  the 
trees.  Curiously,  he  was  looking,  from  where  he 
had  thrown  himself  onto  a  Park  chair,  straight  at 
two  elms,  which  might  have  been  the  very  two  by 
the  garden  wall  of  Pond  House.  And  Crystal 
seemed  to  stand  there,  reproaching  him  silently,  as 
would  be  Crystal's  way. 

He  could  not  think  of  her  as  voluble,  even  under 
such  provocation  as  this  would  be.  For,  be  it  to 


DAPHNE  AGAIN  159 

Horace's  credit  or  discredit,  he  never  for  a  moment 
thought  of  concealing  his  new  experience  from  the 
woman  who  loved  him.  Was  it  some  inherent  hon- 
esty, or  was  it  what  Katty  called  "the  clamourous 
inclination  to  a  mirror"  to  see  yourself,  in  other 
eyes,  as  it  were?  He  certainly  did  not  wish  to  see 
himself  in  Katty 's,  tolerant  as  he  knew  her  to  be, 
but  he  must  lose  no  time  in  telling  Crystal. 

He  felt  that  full  confession  in  a  way  entitled  him 
to  absolution.  He  would  put  it  all  so  frankly,  so 
finely,  that,  hurt  as  she  would  be,  she  would  admire 
his  nobility  in  telling  her.  Yet  the  idea  of  her  suf- 
fering tortured  him  .  .  .  and  hardly  let  him  dwell 
more  than  a  moment  at  a  time  on  the  delicious  con- 
sciousness of  knowing  himself  capable  of  falling 
in  love  once  more.  At  forty-six,  to  experience  the 
joys,  the  pangs,  the  exaltations  of  that  wonderful 
sensation,  complete  absorption  in  a  lovely  woman! 
as  complete  as  though  one  were  twenty! 

There  was  a  further  charm  in  the  fact  that 
Daphne  had  not  responded.  It  was  one  of  Horace's 
theories  that  love  was  as  much  a  matter  of  response 
as  of  emotion.  He  had  always  been  sure  of  a 
prompt  return  when  he  had  heretofore  bestowed  his 
affection,  young  or  middle-aged,  but  here  in  his  most 
fatuous  retrospect,  he  could  not  claim  the  hint  of  a 
response.  Yet  his  own  sensation  was  as  tremendous 
as  sensation  could  be.  His  altruism  pleased  Hor- 
ace. It  convinced  him  that  his  mental  horizons 
were  unbounded.  There  should  be  no  limits  to  a 
man's  experience,  to  the  experience  of  a  rounded 
personality,  at  any  rate. 


160      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

But  Crystal. 

How  far  would  he  fall  in  Crystal's  estimation? 
Would  she  understand  that  this  adventure  was  not 
of  his  seeking,  had  been  thrust  upon  him,  indeed? 
...  so  that  he  was  not  to  be  blamed  .  .  .  rather 
to  be  ...  he  could  not  say  envied,  to  Crystal  .  .  . 
he  must  say  .  .  .  pitied.  And  he  would  assure  her 
it  in  no  way  affected  his  profound  devotion  to  her- 
self. To  be  sure  he  had  never  loved  two  women 
successfully  at  the  same  time  before.  But  this  again 
was  a  new  departure.  Only,  would  Crystal  believe 
in  the  possibility  of  a  man's  doing  so?  Women  were 
hard  to  convince  when  their  emotions  were  con- 
cerned, to  convince  of  anything,  that  is,  beyond 
primitive  assertions. 

How  should  he  put  it  to  her  ?  Should  he  go  down 
at  once,  and  that  very  evening  when  it  was  lovely 
and  still  in  the  garden,  Crystal  resting  her  beautiful 
head  on  his  shoulder,  should  he  tell  her  then?  No. 
Something  in  him  revolted.  If  it  hurt  her  too  much, 
he  would  give  in.  He  knew  himself.  He  would 
swear  never  to  see  or  think  of  Daphne  again. 

No,  he  would  write.  He  would  put  it  honestly 
before  her.  She  should  decide  everything.  It  was 
quite  on  the  cards  that  she  would  refuse  to  see  him 
again.  In  any  event,  he  must  sail  in  three  weeks 
for  Buenos  Aires  .  .  .  sooner  if  this  Fiume  dis- 
turbance meant  new  "Bovo"  contracts.  He  would 
cable  out  there  now,  and  then  he  would  give  up 
the  evening,  the  night  if  need  be,  to  his  letter  to 
Crystal. 

He  walked  on  to  his  hotel,  pausing  to  buy  the 


DAPHNE  AGAIN  161 

evening  papers.  His  own  problems  were  so  engross- 
ing that  all  else  took  a  second  place.  Russia  .  .  . 
what  horrors !  This  extraordinary  England  not  yet 
announcing  her  way  .  .  .  And  the  Adriatic  impasse. 
A  century  of  events  crowded  into  a  day. 

It  was  all  on  the  knees  of  the  gods.  Italy,  Ire- 
land, Russia.  He  remembered  that  Serbia  must  also 
be  included.  What  had  Katty's  young  Dakovich 
written?  "The  angry  gods  gather  once  more  to 
our  undoing."  Did  he  love  Lady  Freke,  that  hand- 
some boy?  No.  She  was  twice  his  age.  Absurd 
.  .  .  yet  he  was  twice  Daphne's.  An  unwelcome 
picture  of  Daphne's  lovely  head,  by  Stefan's  even 
more  beautiful  one,  formed  itself  for  a  moment  in 
his  mind  .  .  .  were  the  "angry  gods"  jeering  at 
him?  As  indeed  they  must  be  in  that  moment,  at 
the  whole  world. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CRYSTAL 

KATTY  telegraphed  her  sister  next  morning  that 
she  was  in  dire  need  of  help  .  .  .  her  Flemish  Hos- 
tel short  handed,  and  complications  at  Rijsdijk,  the 
Holland  end  of  the  work.  Could  Crystal  come  to 
town  for  a  few  days? 

Telegram  in  hand  ...  at  moments  like  this  one 
did  not  bless  the  absence  of  a  telephone  as  one  did 
at  other  times  .  .  .  the  lady  of  the  Pond  House 
walked  up  and  down  her  orchard  paths.  She  hated 
to  leave  this  peaceful  Oxfordshire  even  for  two 
days.  And  perhaps  Katty's  telegram  meant  that 
one  of  them  must  cross  to  Holland.  That  wouldn't 
be  so  bad.  She  loved  her  Holland,  darling  little 
country ! 

She  and  Katty,  Daphne  with  them,  had  once  spent 
a  summer  in  an  unspoiled  little  village  near  Dor- 
drecht. Katty,  who  did  everything  easily,  had 
learned  Dutch  as  a  joke.  Daphne,  as  serious  as 
Katty  was  not,  had  learned  it  too,  far  more  cor- 
rectly, but  with  none  of  Katty's  lively  volubility. 
That  knowledge  had  been  invaluable  during  the  war, 
when  Katty  had  volunteered  her  services  as  Flem- 
ish interpreter  (Dutch  and  Flemish  being  practi- 
cally the  same),  and  afterwards,  when  she  had  es- 

162 


CRYSTAL  163 

tablished  a  Flemish  Hostel  for  the  housing  of  such 
unfortunates  as  could  not  return  to  Flanders. 
Daphne  had  assisted  her  till  her  convent  life  began. 
Crystal  had  helped  with  the  French  speaking  refu- 
gees. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Crystal  left  before  the  post 
was  in,  and  so  missed  Horace's  letter.  Her  surmise 
was  right,  Katty  had  gone  unexpectedly  to  Holland. 
There  was  much  to  do  at  the  Hostel,  where  Crystal's 
sense  of  mothering,  of  hospitality,  of  generosity 
always  rose  in  a  flood  that  Katty  said  would  pau- 
perise the  American  continent  if  ever  it  reached 
there.  And  having  restored  the  regular  workings 
of  the  place  she  returned  to  the  Pond  House. 

It  had  seemed  curious  to  get  no  word  from  Hor- 
ace. Of  course  she  had  telephoned  to  his  hotel,  to 
learn  that  Mr.  Dimock  had  been  called  unexpectedly 
to  Paris  ...  "a  three  days'  trip  on  business,"  the 
clerk  informed  her.  But  of  course  she  would  find 
letters  from  him  at  the  Pond  House,  and  went  down 
on  the  late  train  Saturday  evening. 

The  little  house  under  its  gigantic  trees  was  dark 
except  for  a  tiny  night  light  in  the  low  square  hall. 
Yes,  there  lay  Horace's  letter  by  the  light;  the  be- 
loved handwriting  was  like  a  tender  welcome.  She 
would  have  a  look  at  the  children  first,  slip  into  a 
dressing  gown,  and  then  on  the  couch  in  the  cosy 
drawing  room  where  he  had  lain  so  many  wonderful 
evenings  while  she  read  to  him,  she  would  enjoy 
his  letter,  evidently  a  long,  full  one,  in  delicious 
comfort. 

She  lighted  the  big  softly  shaded  oil  lamp  .  .  . 


164      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

no  electricity  at  Sallum  Prior!  .  .  .  and  went  up 
to  change.  It  was  a  little  disconcerting  to  find 
Bobby  in  her  bed,  and  Mr.  Honey  in  Bobby's,  close 
beside.  A  paper  pinned  to  his  pillow  above  Bobby's 
rosy  little  countenance  was  evidently  Bedelia's  con- 
tribution : 

"Darling  Mummie  Bobby  was  homsik  for  yu  so 
I  invitud  Mistr  Hony  bekors  I  cudent  lend  Obydyer 
or  Amoony  or  FinMikool  We  sed  ower  prayrs." 

In  Miss  McClinton's  room  "FinMikool"  reposed 
heavily  upon  his  small  mistress's  feet;  "A.  Moony" 
was  well  under  the  bedclothes,  although  a  furry  paw 
rested  on  Bedelia's  chin;  while  "Obydyer,"  the  only 
lively  one,  scratched  about  in  the  wash  basin,  whence 
was  no  convenient  egress. 

Crystal,  shading  the  candle  she  carried  so  that  her 
little  daughter's  slumbers  would  not  be  disturbed, 
reflected  that  it  would  never  do  to  let  Horace  behold 
that  miniature  Zoo.  It  was  just  one  of  those  things 
Horace  would  not  understand. 

Crossing  to  Horace's  empty  room,  she  blew  out 
her  candle  and  leaned  awhile  on  the  wide  old  sill  of 
the  open  window,  looking  over  the  dark  garden 
toward  the  village  roofs,  and  on  to  that  huge  mass 
of  elms  against  the  starry  sky.  Around  her  all  her 
dear  one's  things,  at  her  hand  the  books  he  kept  for 
wakeful  hours,  against  her  heart  his  unread  letter. 
Was  it  possible  there  was  anything  but  happiness  in 
the  world?  Could  evil  ever  pass  here,  under  those 
peaceful  Chilterns?  She  drew  in  a  long  breath  of 


CRYSTAL  165 

the  soft  night  air,  fragrant  with  the  honeysuckle 
under  his  window  .  .  .  and  turning  reluctantly 
from  the  dark  beauty  of  the  night,  she  groped  to 
the  bed  to  leave  a  kiss  on  the  pillow  where  his  head 
had  so  lately  rested.  And  so  out,  down  the  narrow 
stairs  and  into  the  lighted  room  below. 

How  many  times  she  was  to  recall  the  tranquillity 
of  that  moment! 


CHAPTER  XIII 
HORACE'S  LETTER 

"London,  August  5,  1919. 

"What  will  you  say  to  me  when  you  have  read 
what  I  write  here?  What  will  you  think  of  me? 
There  is  no  term  of  opprobrium  too  bitter,  no  name 
too  base,  to  apply  to  me.  And  yet,  I  swear  to  you,  I 
am  not  intentionally  guilty. 

"I  do  not  need  to  affirm  again  my  affection  for  you. 
It  has  been  tried,  under  severe  conditions,  these  past 
four  years.  I  can  honestly  say  to  you,  my  dear  girl, 
that  it  has  never  wavered,  never  altered.  For  the 
longest  period  in  my  life  I  have  remained  constant  to 
one  ideal.  You  have  in  return  given  me  everything 
that  makes  life  worth  living.  My  gratitude  to  you 
has  been  as  great  as  my  love.  And  believe  me  or  not, 
that  gratitude  will  last  as  long  as  I  live.  But  you  will 
never  believe  that  my  love  will  last  also.  I  suppose 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  prove  it  to  you. 

"All  this  time  I  am  avoiding  the  main  issue.  You 
will  not  wonder  at  my  cowardice  when  I  come  to  it. 

"Do  you  remember  my  promising  to  tell  you  what 
was  troubling  me  in  my  first  days  at  Pond  House? 
I  hadn't  the  courage  then.  Besides,  it  seemed  likely 
that  it  would  not  be  necessary.  I  believed  I  had  put 
it  behind  me,  but  I  deceived  myself. 

"Just  before  I  saw  you  at  that  time  I  passed  through 
an  experience  that  was  almost  incredible.  I  was  taken 

166 


HORACE'S  LETTER  167 

absolutely  unawares,  swept  off  my  feet  by  a  storm 
of  emotion  ...  I  can  call  it  nothing  else.  'Whom 
the  gods  would  destroy  they  first  make  mad.'  If  I 
am  marked  for  destruction  the  madness  is  compre- 
hensible .  .  .  and  to  see  my  life  upset,  my  future,  our 
future,  shattered  .  .  .  my  place  in  your  esteem  for- 
feited .  .  .  this  will  be  destruction.  The  madness 
is  otherwise  incomprehensible.  Why  should  I,  a 
happy  man,  satisfied  and  proud  in  your  affection,  ask- 
ing nothing  but  its  continuance,  why  should  I  be 
struck  by  madness? 

"You  will  have  guessed  by  now  what  form  it  has 
taken. 

"I  have  encountered  a  human  being  who,  without 
warning,  dominates  my  life.  She  is  stronger  than  I 
am.  She  has  given  me  no  word  of  encouragement; 
she  knows  I  love  her ;  but  it  is  more  than  possible 
I  shall  never  see  her  again.  Yet  I  am  sure  it  is  right 
to  tell  you  this.  I  could  not  return  to  you  with  this 
on  my  heart  and  conscience.  I  am  distraught  .  .  . 
I  can  neither  sleep  nor  rest. 

"I  shall  go  to  Paris  for  three  days  ...  to  escape 
from  myself.  I  cannot  write  again  till  I  know  where 
I  stand  in  your  eyes.  It  is  useless  to  say  I  love  you. 
.  .  .  You  will  "despise  me  for  venturing  to  think  I 
can  love  two  women  at  once.  Yet  as  God  is  my 
judge,  I  can.  You  will  always  remain  the  dearest 
being  in  the  world  to  me,  except  for  that  one  other. 
Pour  out  your  anger,  your  disgust,  upon  me.  You 
can  say  nothing  of  me  that  I  have  not  said  myself. 

"HORACE/' 

Crystal  had  read  to  the  end  without  moving,  as 
one  watches  a  catastrophe  before  one's  eyes,  unable 


168      -WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

to  arrest  it.  Her  breath  stopped  suddenly,  for  a 
perceptible  period.  What  had  happened?  Had 
some  one  killed  her?  "An  experience  that  was  al- 
most incredible."  Where  had  she  read  that?  She 
looked  down  at  the  letter. 

Yes,  Horace  had  written  that.  Had  Horace 
killed  her?  Did  he  mean  to?  Did  he  know  what 
he  was  doing?  Incredible!  That  was  the  only 
word.  She  began  to  breathe  again  .  .  .  evenly, 
quietly,  like  a  person  who  is  alive,  but  unconsciously 
so.  Her  eyes  turned  from  the  great  globe  of  yel- 
low lamp-light  to  the  darkness  of  the  long  win- 
dow which  stood  open  to  the  garden.  There  was 
Horace's  chair  on  the  grass.  And  Horace  would 
never  sit  in  it  again.  He  was  in  Paris  ...  he 
would  soon  go  to  the  Argentine.  He  would  never 
come  again  to  that  walled-in  garden.  He  would 
never  lift  his  eyes  from  there  to  the  Chilterns. 

"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,"  said 
Crystal,  "from  whence  cometh  my  help"  .  .  .  and 
without  knowing  what  she  said  or  did  she  rose  un- 
steadily, walking  to  the  long  window.  It  was  too 
dark  to  see  the  Chilterns,  and,  still  in  a  dream,  she 
passed  through  the  garden  and  out  into  the  road. 

Incredible.  That  was  what  they  said  when  the 
Germans  invaded  Belgium.  It  was  incredible  that 
any  race  of  men  should  do  so  dastardly  a  thing. 
Was  Horace  a  German?  Was  Horace  dastardly? 
Absurd  word  for  her  gallant  beloved  one.  Crystal 
smiled  in  the  darkness.  She  must  have  had  a  mo- 
ment of  delirium. 

But  the  letter,  which  she  held  tightly  all  this  time, 


HORACE'S  LETTER  169 

had  said  "an  experience  that  was  almost  incredible." 
She  saw  the  words  even  in  the  dark.  She  could 
almost  repeat  the  whole  letter.  "What  will  you  say 
to  me  when  you  have  read  what  I  write  here  ?  What 
will  you  think  of  me?"  She  spoke  it  aloud,  quite 
distinctly,  pausing  on  the  Hill  Road,  and  looking 
over  the  midnight  fields.  "There  is  no  term 'of 
opprobrium  too  bitter  ...  no  name  too  base  to 
apply  to  me." 

Was  this  all  true  of  Horace?  Horace?  He  said 
it  was.  Did  he  understand  what  he  was  saying? 
Did  he  think  love  was  like  that?  Something  you 
could  throw  off  and  take  on  ?  Something  you  could 
change  as  you  changed  an  old  coat?  The  love  be- 
tween her  and  Horace  was  a  reality  .  .  .  some- 
thing tangibly  existent,  alive,  a  soul,  a  spirit.  .  .  . 
Was  he  trying  to  strangle  it,  as  horrible  people  in 
the  newspapers  strangled  an  unwanted  child?  You 
could  not  murder  a  spirit  ...  it  went  on  forever. 

But  he  claimed  he  loved  her  still  .  .  .  only  that 
there  was  one  he  loved  better.  Crystal  dismissed 
this  as  being  words,  words  without  meaning.  Love 
was  general,  to  be  sure  .  .  .  you  loved  the  whole 
world,  but  as  a  result  of  loving  the  one  particular 
person  .  .  .  no,  not  as  a  result,  as  an  accompani- 
ment. But  the  love  for  that  one  .  .  .  that  was  the 
completion,  the  rapture,  the  reason  of  existence. 
Could  it  be  he  had  not  really  loved  her  after  all? 
That  this  new  feeling  was  the  real  thing?  No,  she 
was  sure  of  the  affection  he  had  given  her  ...  it 
had  been  wonderful,  superb,  without  reservation. 
Of  course  she  had  only  Alexander's  devotion  to 


i;o      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

compare  it  with.  .  .  .  Would  another  woman  know 
better?  Would  Katty,  for  instance?  Katty  had 
been  loved  so  often  .  .  .  three  husbands  .  .  .  and 
she  could  not  remember  when  some  man  or  boy 
wasn't  sighing  his  soul  out  for  Katty.  Did  any  of 
them  offer  a  completer  devotion  than  Horace's? 
Could  anything  in  the  world  seem  more  genuine 
than  his? 

No,  it  was  shipwreck,  pure  and  simple.  Some 
engulfing  sea  she  could  not  understand,  that  Horace 
perhaps  could  not  understand,  had  swept  her  down, 
had  swept  down  her  hopes,  had  swept  down  .  .  . 
must  she  also  believe,  Horace's  honour? 

Only  the  pain  of  it  till  now  had  engrossed  her. 
She  had  walked  on,  unconsciously  holding  her  hand 
against  her  heart.  She  recalled  an  illness  she  had 
had  as  a  child,  when  her  heart  had  hurt  like  this,  and 
the  doctors  had  said  she  must  be  careful,  always. 
To  think  Horace  .  .  .  Horace,  should  give  her  this 
pain  .  .  .  that  it  should  be  his  hand  that  stabbed 
her  in  the  heart ! 

She  looked  over  the  country  he  had  so  loved 
.  .  .  this  land  of  which  she  had  been  a  part,  per- 
haps always,  through  her  forbears  ...  he  had  said 
he  loved  it  next  to  her  .  .  .  now  he  had  proved 
traitor  to  Oxfordshire  as  to  her. 

Suddenly  a  burning,  scorching  blush  rushed  into 
her  face.  She  forgot  the  pain,  realising  in  a  flash 
what  affront  had  been  put  upon  her.  She  hadn't 
known  till  then  that  she  was  proud  .  .  .  proud  as 
the  devil  in  hell  ...  she  said  aloud,  in  a  kind  of 
astounded  wonder  at  herself  .  .  .  proud  as  the 


HORACE'S  LETTER  171 

greatest  devil,  proud  as  Lucifer,  the  very  devil  who 
had  defied  God.  .  .  . 

If  Horace  were  there  at  that  moment  she  would 
kill  him.  She  looked  at  her  long  white  hands  .  .  . 
could  they  strangle  him  ?  Strangle  was  an  ugly  word 
that  seemed  to  haunt  her  .  .  .  but  at  that  moment 
she  knew  she  could  .  .  .  and  would  .  .  .  she,  Crys- 
tal, tall  and  proud  and  angry.  She  saw  herself, 
for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  her  life;  knew  herself 
too  beautiful,  too  tall  and  proud,  to  affront  like 
that. 

She  was  still  walking.  The  road  had  become  a 
steep  climb.  The  sharp  pain  came  back  in  her  side. 
She  discovered  that  she  was  out  of  breath.  And 
the  dawn,  the  early  dawn  of  August,  would  soon 
be  over  her  Chilterns. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  SISTERS 

"THERE  is  a  first  time  for  everything,  in  this 
world,  isn't  there,  Grimmer?"  said  Lady  Freke  as 
she  stood  on  her  low  steps  in  the  early  morning  wait- 
ing for  Grimmer  to  call  a  taxi. 

"Your  ladyship  means  .  .  .  ?"  suggested  the 
large  one,  blandly. 

"I  mean  I'm  tired.  For  the  first  time  I  want  to 
live  in  a  new  Heaven,  on  a  new  earth." 

"You'll  be  too  busy,  my  lady,  to  take  much  no- 
tice," encouraged  Grimmer.  "Here  is  the  taxi,  your 
ladyship." 

"Grimmer,  we've  been  through  a  lot  together. 
If  I  should  lose  you  now,  I'd  close  the  house  and 
live  in  a  plane  tree  over  in  the  Square." 

"Your  ladyship  is  very  kind,  but  I  see  no  im- 
mediate danger,"  her  domestic  Colossus  cheered 
her  as  he  put  her  into  the  taxi. 

"Thim  above  may  know,"  said  Lady  Freke,  re- 
signedly. "But  I  doubt  it.  Here  I  stand  to  pass 
another  year  without  Blundell.  My  boys,  for  all 
the  war  is  done  with,  still  go  in  daily  peril  of  their 
lives.  If  Francis  Morrill  is  right,  and  the  Adriatic 
kettle  likely  to  boil  over,  Grimmer,  with  all  my 
other  blessings,  may  yet  be  pried  out  of  Cadogan 

172 


THE  SISTERS  173 

Square.  And  Crystal?  Why  do  I  know  so  little 
just  now  of  Crystal?" 

She  thought  of  her  beautiful  sister  as  she  drove 
eastward.  Something  was  wrong  there.  She 
wished  she  could  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  She 
saw  her  of  course  at  the  Hostel,  but  the  work  there 
was  so  strenuous,  Crystal's  tranquil  generous  help 
in  such  demand,  that  there  had  been  no  time  to 
talk.  Crystal  had  left  town  immediately  after  that 
little  dinner  for  Horace,  Katty  reflected.  .  .  . 
Katty  herself  had  had  no  time  to  run  down  to 
Sallum  Prior.  She  had  also  to  remind  herself  that 
even  if  she  had  had  the  time,  she  had  not  had  the 
invitation. 

"Look  for  the  man,"  said  Lady  Freke  dryly. 
"Chcrchez  la  femme"  was  a  misleader.  Of  course 
the  man  was  Horace  .  .  .  but  just  how  much  red 
pepper  was  there  in  the  pickle  jar?  She  had  never 
understood  that  affair.  .  .  .  Horace  had  gone  sud- 
denly back  to  his  Bovo  in  the  Argentine.  One  of 
his  charming  notes  had  surprised  her  with  the  word 
of  his  leaving  three  weeks  sooner  than  he  had 
planned.  And  Crystal  looked  like  death  .  .  .  Oh 
that  more  of  us  could  play  death  so  handsomely! 
thought  an  unenvious  sister.  Crystal  with  her  head 
high  and  her  lovely  colour  gone  .  .  .  but  magnifi- 
cent. They  called  her  the  white  lady — "het  witte 
dame" — when  she  went  amongst  the  Flemings. 
.  .  .  One  had  never  thought  of  her  as  the  White 
Lady,  despite  her  unfailing  wear  of  white,  because 
her  rosy  colour  had  given  her  such  radiance.  Now 
that  colour  was  absent.  ' 


174      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Yet  their  relation,  Horace  and  Crystal's,  had  not 
seemed  more  than  a  peaceful  intimacy  between  old 
friends.  He  had  been  in  love  with  her,  of  course, 
in  those  Glenmalure  days,  but  Katty  remembered 
with  some  self-reproach  that  she  had  herself  been 
so  absorbed  in  her  own  affair  .  .  .  her  engagement 
and  marriage  to  dear  old  Blundell  .  .  .  that  she 
had  not  been  so  observant  as  usual.  Had  Crystal 
perhaps  been  in  love  with  Horace  at  this  time  ?  She 
should  have  remembered  that  a  man,  and  as  attrac- 
tive a  man  as  Horace,  who  hung  about  constantly, 
was  not  likely  to  be  the  trifle  to  Crystal  that  he 
would  be  to  her. 

But  there  was  little  time  to  think  of  family  af- 
fairs. 

Most  of  Katty' s  War  Committees  had  come  nat- 
urally to  an  end.  But  her  Flemish  Hostel  claimed 
all  her  time.  It  was  of  course  not  like  those  days 
when  the  250,000  refugees  landed  upon  the  kindly 
English  shores,  and  when,  in  the  lack  of  prepara- 
tion, only  individual  good  will  and  eagerness  made 
the  grim  and  sordid  avalanche  of  human  misery 
manageable  at  all.  Into  those  first  days  were  con- 
centrated the  agonies  and  humours  of  a  life  time. 
Working  untiringly,  lightly,  all  the  four  years  of 
the  war,  only  some  resiliency  in  Katty  .  .  .  she 
called  it  her  callousness  .  .  .  kept  her  gay.  Here 
and  there  a  face,  a  type,  came  out  of  the  crowd, 
with  its  individual  appeal,  but  mostly  it  was  a  surge 
of  humanity  toward  her  desk,  that  asked  unending 
questions,  in  French  or  Flemish,  and  surged  on,  to 
be  taken  care  of  as  best  might  be.  But  that  sore 


THE  SISTERS  175 

time  was  over.  Most  of  the  refugees  had  gone 
back  to  Belgium.  Katty's  Hostel  meant  asylum, 
not  transfer,  for  her  Flemings,  maimed,  sick,  or 
sad,  who  could  not  return  to  their  own  homes. 

It  was  like  the  "Howard  girls"  to  keep  up  their 
war  work  long  after  other  workers  wearied.  And, 
as  Katty  had  at  last  confessed  to  Grimmer,  she  was 
wearying  too.  Accordingly,  she  rejoiced  with  more 
than  the  satisfaction  of  even  the  most  devoted  sister, 
to  see  Crystal  appear  that  very  morning,  coming 
across  the  grey  dusty  floor,  where  unexpected  sun- 
light broke  in  as  she  entered.  A  man  followed  with 
a  suit  case  which  he  set  down  by  Lady  Freke's  desk. 

"You're  as  glorious  as  the  Second  Coming!" 
Katty  said  joyfully,  carrying  Crystal's  hand  to  her 
own  cheek.  Katty  never  kissed  .  .  .  "except  my 
various  husbands,"  she  had  once  said.  But  she  now 
stood  holding  her  tall  sister's  white,  loosely  gloved 
hand  and  looking  keenly  into  the  beautiful  pale  face. 

Yes,  Crystal  had  suffered.  There  were  lines  of 
some  deep  unrest  beneath  that  lovely  tranquillity. 

"Nothing  counts,  really,"  Katty  said  aloud,  "in 
the  face  of  this" — pointing  to  a  group  of  her  Flem- 
ings, "even  now.  All  the  sorrows  we  have  any  of 
us  even  thought  we  had,  pale  into  insignificance. 
These  tragedies  of  Belgium,  Russia,  Serbia,  have 
changed  the  world.  I  mean  one's  own  world  of 
feeling,  of  emotion.  I  can't  think  of  anything  now 
that  would  have  the  right  to  upset  me." 

Katty  studied  her  sister  as  she  spoke.  Crystal 
regarded  her  steadily  in  return,  but  with  a  look  in 
her  great  eyes  Katty  could  not  bear. 


176      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"Do  you  mean,  little  sister,"  Crystal  asked  gently, 
"that  you  would  have  been  philosophical  if  Blun- 
dell,  or  one  of  your  boys,  had  been  killed  in  our 
hideous  war?" 

Katty  caught  her  breath.  "  Tisn't  what  one, 
would  have  been,  'tis  simply  what  one  must  be.  The 
sense  of  proportion  has  altered  for  us  all.  I'd  feel 
I  had  no  longer  the  right  to  suffer,  if  Blundell  .  .  . 
if  Merton  .  .  .  or"  (here  she  really  set  her  teeth 
together)  "or  Hazleby  were  killed." 

And  remembering  Alicia's  surprising  "or  Ha- 
zleby," she  asked  if  the  girl  were  still  at  the  Pond 
House? 

"No.  And  she's  going  out  to  Belgrade  in  a  week. 
She's  been  fitting  herself  to  drive  an  ambulance, 
to  nurse,  to  cook — astonishing  little  Alicia !  I  think 
some  talk  she  had  with  your  Serbian  officers  de- 
cided her." 

"Then  my  boys  will  miss  her.  They  arrive  next 
week."  And  Katty  pulled  out  a  telegram  for  her 
sister  to  read. 

"Oh,  Katty!"  beamed  Crystal.  "This  is  the  first 
bright  spot  in  many  moons.  'Merton,  Hazleby  sail- 
ing twentieth.'  But  oh,  my  dear!  what  a  disap- 
pointment! Blundell  is  going  to  wait  at  Basra!" 

"He  is,"  answered  her  sister,  with  a  tiny  quiver 
of  the  lip.  "He  can  still  be  useful  out  there.  I 
know  what  he's  thinking,  bless  him!" 

"But  at  least  you'll  have  the  boys." 

"For  how  long?  They're  coming  home  on  a 
month's  leave.  But  if  I  know  them,  they'll  be  off 
again;  Hazleby,  anyway." 


THE  SISTERS  177 

And  Katty  looked  over  at  her  Flemings.  "I'll 
have  a  chance  to  see  if  my  philosophy  is  sound, 
Crystal." 

"You  are  a  plucky  little  sister,"  Crystal  smiled 
through  tears  at  her  elder. 

She  had  hardly  spoken  when  a  family  group  was 
steered  in  their  direction — two  men,  a  girl,  a  mother 
with  a  baby,  several  children,  and  an  elderly  woman 
with  an  uncompromising  expression.  They  all 
smiled  in  response  to  Lady  Freke's  cheery  greeting, 
except  the  uncompromising  one,  who  said,  "Mmf ! 
Hollandsch!" 

"Yes,"  agreed  Katty,  "I  learned  your  Flemish  in 
Holland ;  that  is  why  I  talk  like  that." 

"Madame  can  talk  good  Flemish,"  said  one  of  the 
men  reprovingly  to  the  old  woman;  and  as  Crystal 
at  that  moment  produced  various  cakes  from  her 
bag  for  the  children,  and  the  elders  not  disdaining 
them,  at  once  instituted  a  feast,  the  man  drew  Lady 
Freke  aside.  He  looked  about  in  an  anxious  man- 
ner, particularly  in  the  old  woman's  direction,  and 
then  began  in  his  guttural  Flemish : 

"You  see,  Madame,  the  English  have  been  very 
kind  to  us — it's  a  wonder,  how  good  they  are — and 
they  gave  us  a  little  house,  and  plenty  to  eat,  and 
good  clothes  for  the  children;  'tis  a  wonder,  Ma- 
dame, finding  any  people  so  good — but  I  cannot  ex- 
plain to  them.  .  .  ." 

"Come  over  here/"  said  Lady  Freke — thinking 
state  secrets  at  least  would  now  be  revealed.  "Here 
you  can  speak  freely." 

"Madame  is  good — it  is  the  aunt.  .  .  ." 


178      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"The  aunt?     Your  aunt?" 

"No,  Madame — the  aunt  of  my  wife's  mother — • 
she  is  there,  the  old  woman — O  Madame,  you  Eng- 
lish can  do  anything,  if  only  you  will  understand! 
Tell  me  how  to  lose  the  aunt !" 

"You've  asked  me  everything,  you  funny  Flem- 
ish people,"  responded  Lady  Freke,  "but  never, 
never,  have  I  been  asked  to  get  rid  of  anyone's 
aunt !  .  .  .  And  I'm  not  English  .  .  .  although  you 
are  quite  right  .  .  .  they  can  do  anything,  those 
English,  if  only  you  can  make  them  understand!" 

"Ah,  then  Madame  is  from  Holland?" 

"No,  from  America." 

The  man's  face  lighted  up.  "This  is  the  first 
time  I  see  an  American.  Often  do  I  see  the  Ameri- 
can flag,  and  my  people,  we  take  off  our  hats,  and 
the  tears  come  in  our  eyes  ...  it  is  true,  Madame, 
when  we  see  that  flag  .  .  .  but  an  American  lady 
.  .  .  just  like  others  .  .  .  and  you  can  understand 
me!" 

Katty  laughed.  ...  "I  don't  understand  about 
the  aunt;"  .  .  .  but  in  a  few  moments  it  was  ar- 
ranged to  the  man's  satisfaction.  The  aunt  should 
go  to  a  home  offered  by  kind  people  near  London, 
where  she  should  have  a  room  of  her  own,  and  good 
food.  And  the  man  was  to  take  his  family  back  to 
Belgium. 

"This  is  Lady  Freke?"  came  an  insistent  Scotch 
voice.  "I'll  take  an  orphan  to  Glasgow.  .  .  .  I'll 
give  her  a  good  home." 

"Dear  Madam,  there  are  no  orphans?    Or  rather, 


THE  SISTERS  179 

every  orphan  has  at  least  one  or  two  parents,  and 
several  uncles  and  aunts.  I  never  knew  orphans 
could  have  so  many  relatives!" 

Scotland  regarded  America  with  distrust.  "There 
must  be  orphans,  children  without  father  or  mother, 
it  stands  to  reason,"  she  said  severely. 

"This  is  not  the  age  ...  or  place  ...  of 
reason,"  responded  flippant  America.  "I  can  give 
you  any  amount  of  orphans  if  you'll  take  their 
parents.  But  they  won't  be  separated.  Family  feel- 
ing is  a  great  asset  with  our  Belgians,  except  .  .  . 
candour  compels  me  to  add  ...  in  the  case  of 
aunts.  Possibly  you  would  take  an  aunt?  Aunts 
are  sometimes  orphans." 

"I  have  come  all  the  way  from  Glasgow  to  offer 
hospitality  to  an  orphan,"  said  her  interlocutor 
formidably  ...  "a  young  orphan.  I  do  not  wish 
to  take  anyone  else." 

Katty,  unabashed,  led  the  lady  to  a  distant  desk  to 
prosecute  further  enquiries  and  returned  gaily  to 
Crystal. 

A  huge  man,  with  the  dignity  and  picturesqueness 
of  a  Spanish  grandee,  was  talking  easily  to  the 
lovely  Mrs.  McClinton.  He  spoke  excellent  French, 
and  explained,  with  some  humour,  that  he  had  only 
one  suit  of  clothes.  .  .  .  Alas,  he  had  no  money 
either,  and  although  he  had  been  to  the  clothes  de- 
partment of  their  hospitable  "Hostel"  he  was  many 
sizes  too  large  for  anything  there. 

"Of  course  ...  the  very  thing  .  .  ."  Lady 
Freke  cordially  assured  him  .  .  .  "you  are  just  my 
husband's  size.  He  is  away,  but  I  know  there  are 


180      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

lots  of  things  he'd  be  enchanted  to  think  a  Belgian 
gentleman  was  wearing." 

Monsieur  Theysskens'  eyes  filled,  as  he  murmured 
his  appreciation.  Crystal  could  not  bear  to  look  at 
him.  Imagine  Blundell,  or  Peter  Norton,  or  ... 
Horace  ...  in  such  a  predicament,  she  said  to  her- 
self, as  Katty  took  his  address,  promising  to  send  the 
things  that  evening. 

"And,  Monsieur,"  said  her  ladyship,  with  some 
malice,  "your  countrymen  so  far  have  refused,  one 
and  all,  to  accept  pyjamas.  Yet  I've  a  beautiful  box 
of  them,  sent  by  the  kindest  woman  in  Boston. 
Don't  tell  me  you  also  prefer  the  old  fashioned  night 
shirt?" 

But  it  was  exactly  there  that  Monsieur  Theysskens 
drew  the  line.  He  would  not  wear  pyjamas.  "It 
is  not  our  custom,  Madame  .  .  .  and  to  be  quite 
frank,  that  garment  seems  to  me  an  absurdity  .  .  . 
for  a  promenade  in  hot  weather,  perhaps.  ...  I  can 
conceive  of  its  being  used  .  .  .  but  to  repose  in 
.  .  .  never,  Madame!" 

Crystal  had  walked  away  toward  the  table  where 
the  "tartines"  were  served,  with  a  small  fat  hot 
hand  in  hers,  the  grubby  little  owners  of  some  other 
equally  uninviting  paws  following  at  her  heels.  She 
came  suddenly  on  the  pathetic  figure  of  a  young  girl, 
her  blonde  head  bowed  in  red  hands,  as  she  tried  to 
hide  her  sobbing  fit. 

"It's  the  first  time  I've  seen  tears  here !"  said  one 
of  the  two  English  members  of  Katty's  Committee, 


THE  SISTERS  181 

"they  are  generally  so  brave !  but  we  can't  find  out 
if  she's  French  or  Flemish." 

"Shall  I  call  Lady  Freke?"  asked  Crystal.  "I 
think  the  child  is  Flemish.  She  looks  like  some- 
thing in  a  Terbourg  picture." 

"Yes,  please  .  .  .  please!" 

Katty  was  found,  and,  motioning  the  others  away, 
sat  down  by  the  weeping  girl. 

"You're  Flemish,  I  can  see,"  she  said  softly. 
"Now  be  good  and  sweet,  and  tell  me  where  you 
come  from." 

"Alost,"  sobbed  the  girl.  "O  Madame!  I  under- 
stand nothing  .  .  .  but  I  have  lost  my  mother,  and 
my  father,  and  my  two  brothers  .  .  .  and  I  am 
frightened." 

In  a  few  moments  Katty  had  the  story. 

Simonne  van  den  Poel  was  seventeen.  She  was 
the  only  daughter  and  took  care  of  her  mother 
who  was  very,  very  ill.  They  had  all  fled  from 
Alost  in  the  early  days  of  the  war,  to  a  strange 
village,  where  her  fathers  and  brothers  had  been 
forced  to  leave  them  to  work  in  Germany.  Her 
mother  grew  worse  and  worse  .  .  .  and  when  the 
war  was  over,  and  the  men  returned  ("so  thin, 
Madame,  you  could  see  their  bones!")  there  was  no 
home  in  Alost,  and  they  heard  how  good  it  was  in 
England.  So  they  walked  many  many  days  to  the 
sea,  and  it  was  she,  Simonne,  who  drew  the  little 
cart  in  which  they  put  her  mother.  "For  men  do 
not  know  how  to  care  for  a  sick  woman,  Madame," 
said  poor  little  Simonne,  lifting  her  blue  eyes  at  last. 

And  when  they  reached  the  sea  there  was  a  boat 


1 82      -WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

to  bring  them  all  to  England,  where  they  would  find 
work  and  much  money. 

But  the  van  den  Poel  family  must  wait  to  go  on 
last,  because  of  the  little  cart.  And  then  her  father 
and  brothers  thought  she  was  tired,  and  said  they 
would  put  it  on.  So  she,  Simonne,  went  on  to  the 
boat  first  .  .  .  and  O  Madame,  they  pulled  her  on  so 
quickly,  those  strange  Englishers,  that  when  she 
looked  around  for  her  mother  it  was  all  confused, 
but  the  boat  had  started.  There  stood  her  father 
and  brothers  beside  the  little  cart  on  the  land  .  .  . 
and  she,  Simonne,  alone  on  the  water !  .  .  .  in  that 
great  boat,  being  taken  away  from  them.  She  had 
tried  to  jump  off  ...  but  someone  held  her,  and 
her  father  called  loudly  "Simonne !  wait  in  England ! 
We  will  come!" 

But  this  England  was  so  huge,  how  would  they 
find  her?  She  had  not  seen  one  person  she  knew 
.  .  .  not  one,  Madame!  nor  had  she  understood 
one  word  anyone  had  spoken  to  her. 

"But  you  understand  me?" 

"Oh,  yes  .  .  .  though  it  was  not  the  way  they 
spoke  in  Alost!" 

"Now,  my  girl,"  explained  Lady  Freke  slowly  and 
clearly,  "you  are  going  to  be  very  brave.  Tonight 
you  shall  come  home  with  me,  so  that  we  can  talk 
about  your  family  and  the  best  way  to  send  them  a 
letter.  When  did  you  have  something  to  eat?" 

"This  morning.  I  did  not  think  I  would  ever  eat 
again  .  .  .  but  now,  O  Madame,  I  am  so  hungry!" 
and  the  tears  fell  once  more. 

So  Katty  took  her  to  Crystal,  who  could  be  relied 


THE  SISTERS  183 

upon  to  find  her  the  hottest  soup,  the  strongest 
coffee,  the  most  inviting  "tartines,"  and  herself 
hastened  to  register  the  poor  waif,  and  to  arrange 
for  her  temporary  domicile  with  her.  Crystal  was 
to  stay  the  night  in  Cadogan  Square,  so  there  was  no 
hurry. 

An  hour  later  the  big  place  was  practically  empty. 
Felton  the  janitor  appeared  from  some  unknown 
hiding  place  ...  a  night  bird  was  Felton,  gaunt 
and  hawk  eyed,  sleeping  most  of  the  day,  and  doing 
his  heavy  work  between  the  Flemings'  departure  at 
night  and  their  re-appearance  next  morning. 

He  was  followed  by  two  cats  not  more  silent  than 
himself,  and  Lady  Freke  paused  long  enough  by 
Simonne,  now  happily  eating  unlimited  "tartines," 
to  explain  that  the  cats  helped  Felton  sweep  and 
clean  and  that  he  in  return  helped  them  catch  mice. 

Simonne' s  first  smile  appeared  on  her  round  little 
countenance,  which,  now  that  Crystal  had  super- 
intended a  washing  and  general  tidying,  was  dis- 
covered to  be  very  pretty. 

The  long  day  had  passed  like  others. 

While  Katty  wrote  up  the  day's  report  of  her 
various  "cases"  ...  it  was  always  droll  to  find 
Katty  businesslike!  Simonne  made  friends  with 
Felton's  cats,  and  Crystal  walked  about  in  the 
echoing  emptiness. 

It  grew  steadily  darker.  The  bare  room  lost  its 
uncompromising  lines.  Shadows  hid  the  unlovely 
chairs  and  settees.  At  one  end  of  the  long  place, 
where  Felton  was  cleaning,  burned  a  few  lights. 


184      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

At  the  other  end  a  clear  green  shade,  over  the  electric 
lamp  on  Katty's  desk,  shone  on  her  foolish  white 
hair.  Between  them,  these  two  extremes  of  de^ 
voted  labour,  reflected  Crystal,  stretched  the  long 
grey  boards  on  which  the  human  tragedy  that  day 
had  walked. 

She  recalled  one  little  lame  Belgian  lady  who  had 
said  repeatedly  in  her  fine  thin  voice,  "Cest  incroy- 
able,  Madame.  C'est  tout.  C'est  incroyable !" 

That  was  a  better  word  than  the  "incredible"  the 
English  had  used  at  first.  Incroyable!  And 
Crystal  thought  of  her  midnight  walk  with  Horace's 
letter  in  her  hand.  She  had  written  him  .  .  .  how 
long  an  answer !  calling  on  him  to  deny  it  all,  to  re- 
turn to  her.  And  receiving  a  desperate  reply,  a  tele- 
gram, with  no  hope  of  comfort  in  it,  had  sent  him 
a  second  letter,  bitter  and  astonished.  She  wished 
now  she  had  sent  no  letter  at  all,  but  one  word,  once 
only,  "Incroyable!" 

Yet  what  was  her  anguish  to  the  anguish  of  a 
nation?  She  seemed  to  see  the  forlorn  figures  of 
the  last  four  years  passing  in  the  gloom,  no  tears 
anywhere  except  Simonne's. 

And  there  passed  also  those  others,  who  had 
escaped  .  .  .  for  how  long?  those  tall  men  of 
Katty's  .  .  .  the  beloved  Blundell  and  the  two  gal- 
lant American  boys;  Peter  Norton  white  as  death, 
with  the  colossal  task  of  guiding  his  army  of 
readers,  Peter  who  had  let  his  older  daughter  go 
with  her  ambulance  into  the  firing  line  and  who 
would  now  perhaps  lose  the  younger  .  .  .  and, 
curiously  vivid  for  her  short  acquaintance  with 


THE  SISTERS  185 

them,  the  two  Serbians.  What  was  it  Katty  had 
said  of  Stefan?  "If  tragedy  overhangs  that  boy!" 
Of  course  tragedy  hung  over  him.  Had  anyone 
come  through  the  war  without  knowing  that  all 
beauty  was  predestined  to  destruction?  beauty  of 
cathedral  towns,  of  age-old  books,  .  .  .  beauty  of 
the  spirit,  of  the  human  relationship  .  .  .  most  of 
all,  beauty  of  youth. 

Stefan's  dark  eyes  looked  at  her  in  her  reverie 
and,  through  them,  looked  Serbia.  Her  heart 
cried  out  for  him,  for  Serbia,  for  Belgium,  for  her 
little  sister,  so  gay,  so  smiling,  in  the  face  of  what 
they  had  all  been  through,  of  what  perhaps  even  now 
lay  before  them. 

The  illimitable  courage  of  the  world ! 

Only  Horace  had  failed.  Horace  and  the 
Germans.  Every  other  individual,  every  other  race, 
had  rung  true.  She  knew  that  if  a  sword  struck 
the  steel  in  Blundell,  in  Merton  or  Hazleby,  in  Peter 
Norton,  in  wild  Boyovich,  in  tall  and  silent  Stefan, 
it  would  ring  hard  and  true.  In  Horace  was  no 
steel  .  .  .  only  padding  .  .  .  charm,  cleverness, 
fine  appreciations,  success,  noble  intentions  ...  all 
padding,  no  steel  there. 

England  had  rung  true  .  .  .  Ireland,  despite  Sinn 
Fein  .  .  .  Belgium,  France,  Serbia  .  .  .  but  Ger- 
many had  responded  like  .  .  .  like  a  bag  of  filings, 
iron  filings,  to  be  sure,  "blood  and  iron"  .  .  . 
greed,  lust,  envy,  brutality.  .  .  .  Crystal  smiled  in 
the  dark  at  her  own  mixture  of  metaphor.  But  she 
said  aloud  .  .  .  "No,  Germany  has  never  rung 
true."  And  found  herself  suddenly  pausing  in  her 


i86      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

walk  to  say,  "My  own  country  rang  truest  of  them 
all!" 

Yet  Horace,  representative  American  as  he  was, 
had  failed.  Had  other  Americans  failed  too? 
Merton's  and  Hazleby's  indignant  young  voices 
seemed  to  answer  her:  "Tante  Crystal!  Shame. 
Our  country  rang  as  though  God  Himself  had 
struck  the  sfceel  1" 


CHAPTER  XV 

ALOST  AND  BRUXELLES 

"WEELUM  JAWGE!"  demanded  Bobby  with 
severity.  "Do  you  know  what  is  ve  refugees?" 

"Yeh,"  said  Mr.  Honey. 

"You  think  they're  Farmer  Giles'  new  mowing- 
machines,  don't  you,  Mr.  Honey?"  Bedelia  enquired 
from  an  unsuspected  perch  in  the  plum  tree  over 
them. 

"Yeh,"  assented  Mr.  Honey,  relieved. 

"Now,  Weelum  Jawge,  you  don't  .  .  .  you  know 
ve  refugees  is  alive." 

"Yeh" ;  Mr.  Honey  considered  it  carefully. 

"You  think  they're  a  new  kind  of  white  rats,  don't 
you,  Mr.  Honey?"  pursued  Miss  McClinton. 

"Yeh,"  responded  Mr.  Honey,  now  sure  of  his 
facts. 

"Weelum  Jawge!"  remonstrated  his  friend. 
"Ve  refugees  is  ve  poor  peoples  wiv  all  ve  bad 
Germans  chasing  vem." 

"He  means  Belgees,"  vouchsafed  Miss  Mc- 
Clinton. 

"Yeh !"  agreed  Mr.  Honey,  as  one  knowing  it  all 
along. 

"Mummie  is  coming  tonight  wiv  Belgees.  .  .  . 
Oh,  oceans  of  Belgees,"  proclaimed  Bobby.  "I  shall 

187 


1 88      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

show  vem  my  new  mud  guard.  And,  B'delia,  you'll 
let  vem  play  wiv  Obadiah,  won't  you,  B'delia?" 

"Of  course,"  said  his  sister.  "Mummie  says 
nothing  in  the  whole  world,  or  even  in  the  Pond 
House,  is  too  good  for  the  refugees.  I  dare  say 
Bobby  will  have  to  give  them  all  his  clothes  and  stay 
in  bed  while  they  wear  them." 

Bobby  looked  anxious. 

"Will  I  have  to  give  vem  my  mud  guard,  too? 
It's  lucky  my  new  bicycle  bell  is  broken,  isn't  it, 
Weelum  Jawge?" 

"Yeh,"  said  Mr.  Honey,  cheerfully. 

"I  believe  they're  coming  now!"  called  Bedelia 
from  her  superior  vantage  point.  "I  can  see  Dicky 
the  Driver's  red  chrysanthemum !" 

And  sure  enough  ...  in  two  minutes  Bedelia 
and  Bobby  threw  themselves  rapturously  into  their 
mother's  white  cloaked  embrace,  and  formal  intro- 
ductions followed  as  three  other  figures  emerged 
from  the  fly.  Crystal  had  brought  down  Simonne 
and  two  little  boys. 

"These  are  all  Tante  Katty's  special  friends,"  she 
said.  "The  boys  don't  speak  English,  so  you  must 
talk  French  with  them,  and  Simonne  has  learned  a 
little  English  at  Tante  Katty's,  so  I've  promised  you 
will  teach  her  a  lot  more." 

Simonne  regarded  her  new  surroundings  with  the 
stolidity  of  the  peasant,  but  Henri  and  Maximilian 
de  Wiart,  more  intimately  known  as  Ri-Ri  and 
Chou-Chou,  evinced  the  liveliest  interest. 

Ri-Ri  was  a  tall  blonde  boy  of  nine,  with  much 
gaiety  and  excellent  manners.  Chou-Chou  was 


ALOST  AND  BRUXELLES  189 

small,  practical  and  podgy.  Both  spoke  delightful 
French. 

"Their  father  and  mother,  Monsieur  and  Ma- 
dame de  Wiart,  are  glad  to  let  us  have  the  boys 
awhile,"  explained  Crystal,  first  in  English,  then 
in  French.  "They  have  lived  in  Brussels  all  through 
the  war."  She  did  not  explain  that  the  poor  proud 
Bruxellois  had  at  last  found  themselves  without 
money  or  endurance  after  the  long  German  occu- 
pation. Katty  had  breezily  arranged  a  home  near 
Rijsdijk  for  the  elders,  and  had  whisked  the  small 
boys  away. 

"And  poor  Simonne  can't  see  her  family  for  some 
little  time  yet,  so  we  must  all  make  her  happy  and 
play  we're  her  American  family  while  she's  waiting 
to  go  back  to  her  Flemish  one." 

"I  shall  be  her  Tante  Katty,"  said  Bedelia,  with 
firmness,  screwing  an  imaginary  monocle  into  her 
eye.  "And  Mr.  Honey  shall  be  Grimmer.  Wouldn't 
you  like  to  be  a  'normous  fat  butler,  Mr.  Honey?" 

Mr.  Honey  said  "Yeh"  rather  doubtfully.  The 
other  gentlemen  present  agreed  to  be  Simonne' s 
uncles,  and  the  party,  having  investigated  the  ques- 
tion of  bedrooms,  soon  assembled  joyfully  in  the 
blue  and  white  kitchen.  It  was  November  now,  too 
dark  and  cold  for  garden  tea,  and  Crystal  was  glad. 
The  lively  group  around  the  lighted  tea  table,  the 
big  fire  roaring  in  the  comfortable  range,  gave  her 
the  first  happy  moments  she  had  had  for  many 
weeks. 

"I  find  this  the  true  country,   Madame!"  said 


190      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Ri-Ri.  "I  am  enchanted  to  be  here.  Chou-Chou 
is  too  young." 

"No,  no,  Madame,  I  am  old  enough!"  protested 
the  smaller  Belgian. 

"I  hope  you  will  all  like  it,"  smiled  Crystal. 

"Me,  I  find  Chou-Chou  too  young,"  reaffirmed 
Ri-Ri.  "And  Simonne"  (this  in  a  cautious  under- 
tone), "Simonne  is  peasant,  and  perhaps  sees  too 
much  country  at  home." 

"We  all  like  the  unknown,  I  suppose,  Monsieur," 
said  his  hostess,  playing  up  to  her  small  guest  with 
some  merriment,  and  thankful  that  no  conventional 
eyes  were  there  to  disapprove  of  this  delightful 
child. 

Mr.  Honey  had  been  invited  to  tea,  and  Crystal 
looked  around  at  the  differing  types  with  real  in- 
terest .  .  .  her  own  two  unmistakable  Americans, 
Simonne's  Flemish  peasant  beauty,  Ri-Ri's  con- 
trasting man-of-the-world  type,  also  Flemish,  al- 
though his  small  brother  was  of  the  unquestionable 
French-Belgian  stamp,  petit  bourgeois  at  that  .  .  . 
and  Mr.  Honey's  English  stolidity  .  .  .  but  all  six 
young  faces  beautiful  in  the  lamp  light. 

Mrs.  Rumbold  and  the  little  maids  were  asked  in 
and  solemnly  presented  to  the  strangers. 

"It  do  fair  give  me  a  turn,"  said  Mrs.  Rumbold, 
"if  you'll  pardon  the  liberty,  m'm,  to  be  lookin'  at 
real  Belgiums  ...  in  the  flesh,  as  you  might  say 
.  .  .  only  none  too  much  flesh,  there  be  n't.  But 
we'll  soon  see  to  that,  young  sirs  and  miss !" 

As  the  three  looked  at  her  uncomprehendingly, 
she  said  this  all  over  again,  very  loudly.  Crystal 


ALOST  AND  BRUXELLES  191 

explained  it  to  the  boys,  and  as  she  could  not  do  the 
same  for  Simonne,  stood  holding  the  young  girl's 
hand,  and  now  and  then  patting  her  shoulder.  Ri- 
Ri,  as  soon  as  he  understood,  shook  hands  with 
Madame  la  Cuisiniere,  as  he  called  her,  in  quite  the 
grand  manner,  so  that  Mrs.  Rumbold  said  apart  to 
her  mistress : 

"Easy  to  see  the  young  gentleman  be  gentry,  m'm. 
But  we're  havin'  spinach  for  dinner,  so  you'll  see 
for  yourself,  m'm." 

Her  keen  eyes  summed  up  Simonne  meanwhile. 
But  Katty  had  dressed  the  young  creature  charming- 
ly, and  Mrs.  Rumbold  was  baffled.  At  dinner, 
Simonne,  under  Crystal's  guidance,  came  down  in  a 
pale  blue  frock,  also  Katty's  gift,  with  a  blue  ribbon 
around  her  fair  hair.  And  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
she  liked  spinach,  so  that  Mrs.  Rumbold,  whose 
proudest  boast  it  was  that  she  could  tell  "gentry" 
unfailingly,  reserved  judgment. 

Crystal  kept  the  girl  as  much  as  possible  at  her 
side,  as  the  lonely  one  in  the  curiously  assorted 
party,  and  all  the  rest,  children,  servants,  were  urged 
to  tell  her  the  English  for  everything  that  happened. 

"Simonne!"  Bobby  would  shout.  "Vis  is  ve  door. 
Vis  is  Mr.  Honey  by  ve  door.  Isn't  it,  Weelum 
Jawge?"  and  Mr.  Honey  would  say,  as  loudly  as  his 
unaccustomed  lungs  permitted,  "Yeh !" 

"Mr.  Honey  says  'Yeh,'  Simonne.  Say  it, 
Simonne !" 

And  Simonne  would  respond,  "Mr.  Honey  say. 
yeh,  Simonne!"  and  Chou-Chou,  little  bourgeois 
gentilhomme,  would  follow  Simonne  conscientiously 


192      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

about,  repeating  English  words  as  fast  as  he  him- 
self acquired  them. 

Ri-Ri,  that  man  of  the  world,  was  too  much 
occupied  with  Bedelia  and  Obadiah,  to  whom  he 
talked  unceasingly  in  his  gay  sweet  French,  to  bother 
with  educational  methods.  And  Bedelia,  so  austere, 
her  mother  smiled  to  herself,  with  Mr.  Honey,  and 
Bobby  and  Uncle  Horace,  turned  a  softening  eye 
on  this  ingratiating  blonde  foreigner.  Crystal  re- 
joiced, like  any  proper  mother,  to  hear  her  small 
daughter's  well  directed  if  peculiar  essays  in  the 
French  tongue.  She  told  herself,  with  some  of 
Katty's  cynicism,  that  she  feared  she  would  sacri- 
fice Ri-Ri's  ever  learning  English  to  Bedelia's  learn- 
ing ever  so  little  French. 

After  dinner  Crystal  started  them  all  on  the  simple 
but  lively  game  of  "Up  Jenkins !"  a  game  in  which 
language  is  the  smallest  part.  And  the  polyglot 
enthusiasm  that  followed  brought  even  the  correct 
Mrs.  Rumbold  and  the  giggling  little  maids  to  the 
door  to  watch. 

At  eight,  which  was  Bobby's  bedtime,  Mr.  Honey 
reluctantly  departed,  and  Bobby,  even  more  re- 
luctantly, said  "Good  night."  It  was  hard  to  leave 
that  fascinating  table  by  the  fire,  where  the  "Belgees" 
and  Bedelia  were  to  play  another  long  half  hour. 
Crystal  sat  at  her  desk  writing  those  business  letters 
her  work  in  town  had  so  pushed  aside,  and  forgot  the 
noisy  game  behind  her. 

It  was  past  the  children's  hour  for  bed  when  she 
looked  up  suddenly  at  the  uncurtained  window,  and 
saw  against  the  darkness  of  the  garden  a  face  so 


ALOST  AND  BRUXELLES  193 

near  the  top  of  the  window  it  suggested  an  uncanny 
giant ;  a  large  face,  under  the  hard  line  of  what,  to 
her  momentary  fancy,  looked  like  a  German  helmet. 
She  rose  quickly  and  went  to  the  window;  the 
children,  their  attention  drawn  by  her  movement, 
looked  in  equal  surprise  at  the  dark  menacing  ap- 
parition. Ri-Ri,  however,  with  a  "Les  Allemands, 
madame!"  pushed  himself  between  Crystal  and  the 
window,  a  very  pale  if  gallant  Ri-Ri. 

"But  there  are  no  Germans  here,"  laughed  Crystal, 
a  little  weakly.  "Open  the  door,  please,  Ri-Ri," 
she  continued  in  French,  and  as  Ri-Ri  protested 
with  all  the  fine  Belgian  heroism  of  nine  .  .  .  (he'd 
be  the  same  at  nineteen,  Crystal  found  time  to  think) 
she  herself  opened  the  long  French  window. 

"Oh,  an  English  constable!"  she  laughed  in  relief. 

"Aye,  m'm,"  came  the  full  Oxfordshire  voice. 
"A'm  Adam  Woodly,  coom  to  thank  ee,  m'm,  for 
kindness  to  my  old  mother.  Said  yon  soup  you  be 
sendin'  her  was  only  thing  she  kep  on  her  stummick." 

"Come  in,"  said  Crystal.  "We  thought  you  a 
German  soldier  in  the  dark.  These  are  my  Belgian 
friends,  who  will  be  very  pleased  to  see  a  real 
English  policeman,  and  to  know  you  are  looking 
out  for  us." 

"Mummie!"  came  rapturously  from  the  opposite 
door,  where  Bobby's  small  pyjamaed  figure  had  sur- 
reptitiously appeared.  "Can't  I  get  ve  policeman 
somefin  to  eat?" 

"If  the  officer  would  like  some  bread  and  cheese 
...  ?"  hesitated  Crystal,  not  quite  understanding 
the  etiquette  of  these  occasions. 


194      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"Thank  ee,  m'm,"  responded  Adam  Woodly  with 
prompt  enthusiasm.  "It  be  a  long  walk  over 
Chilterns  from  next  place!" 

A  thrilled  assembly  of  small  ones  gazed  up  at  the 
giant.  Adam  was  certainly  6  foot  4  and  weighty 
in  proportion,  but  he  now  allowed  himself  to  be  led 
into  the  warm  kitchen  by  the  excited  Bobby. 

Here  Miss  McClinton  took  charge  with  her  ac- 
customed firmness.  Adam  was  given  the  biggest 
chair  at  the  table,  and  all  the  children  hurried  to 
draw  up  other  seats.  Crystal,  smiling  by  the  fire, 
directed  her  little  daughter  in  the  matter  of  bringing 
out  cheese,  bread,  milk  and  cakes.  There  was  evi- 
dently no  limit  to  Adam  Woodly's  appetite,  and  soon 
each  eager  member  of  the  entranced  party,  a  half 
eaten  ginger  cake  in  a  careless  hand,  gazed  with 
round  eyes  at  the  hungry  giant. 

It  was  only  when  Bedelia's  final  search  failed  to 
reveal  more  food  that  Adam  sadly  desisted.  As  he 
rose  ponderously  from  the  now  bare  table  Bobby 
seized  one  ham-like  hand  and  Chou-Chou  the 
other,  looking  up  into  the  distant  but  benignant 
countenance  with  fond  admiration. 

"Come  again,  Mr.  Officer!"  said  Bobby.  "Mum- 
mie,  you  do  feel  proud  to  have  a  real  officer  come  to 
tea  or  anyfing,  don't  you,  Mummie?" 

"Of  course,"  said  his  mother  hastily.  "It  was 
very  kind  of  the  officer  to  come.  Say  'Good  night' 
to  him  now,  all  of  you.  It  is  probable  he  has  to  go 
back  to  his  beat." 

"A'm  goin'  home  to  supper,"  said  Adam  cheer- 
(fully.  "Many  thanks  to  you,  m'm,  and  to  all  the 


ALOST  AND  BRUXELLES  195 

young  ladies  and  young  gentlemen.  A'U  allus  think 
on  ye  when  Ar  coom  along  over  yon  and  it  be  dark 
and  cold." 

Bobby's  invitation  to  future  meals  any  time  Adam 
"coom  along  over  yon"  was  cut  short  by  Mummie, 
who  managed  the  giant's  departure  as  expeditiously 
as  possible.  Then,  gathering  her  small  excited  son 
in  her  arms,  she  called  to  the  others  to  follow,  and  a 
happy  party  trooped  up  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN 

CRYSTAL  looked  at  her  pile  of  letters  with  the  un- 
failing expectation  of  every  morning,  that  one  of 
them  would  be  from  Horace  .  .  .  and  as  every 
morning,  only  disappointment  followed.  There  was 
a  post  card  from  Katty,  that  evader  of  letter  writing. 

"My  boys  arrive  Wednesday.  I  count  on  you  to 
dine  and  sleep  here  that  night.  Think  you  should 
see  Daphne.  A  glorious  letter  from  Stefan.  Love. 
Katty." 

Her  sister's  letters  might  as  well  be  telegrams. 
Still,  they  did  cover  the  ground  .  .  .  Katty's 
ground,  Crystal  thought  whimsically.  She  wished 
she  could  interest  herself  as  Katty  did,  passionately, 
absorbingly,  in  Serbia,  in  Irish  politics,  in  anything. 
She  wondered  if  Katty  had  ever  suffered.  Grief, 
yes  .  .  .  but  humiliation?  For  humiliation, 
Crystal  thought,  is  the  only  real  suffering.  "Ce 
n'est  pas  I'amour  .  .  .  c'est  1'amour-propre."  Who 
said  that?  Rochefoucauld?  It  was  a  petty  if  bril- 
liant summing  up  ...  but  agonisingly  true.  And 
when  you  joined  to  your  bitterly  wounded  pride  a 
curiosity  even  bitterer  .  .  .  was  it  not  far  worse 
than  the  pain  of  death? 

She  had  walked  out,  and  up  her  long  bare  orchard. 
196 


THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN  197 

That  other  .  .  .  the  woman  Horace  had  so  sud- 
denly loved,  for  whom  he  had  so  suddenly  routed 
her,  Crystal,  from  his  heart  .  .  .  who,  where,  what, 
was  she  ?  Crystal  was  ashamed  of  her  own  burning 
eagerness  to  know.  What  difference  did  it  make? 
And  yet  it  seemed  to  her  it  would  be  the  answer  to 
everything  ...  a  clear  understanding  of  the  woman 
who  could  turn  Horace  into  a  traitor  .  .  .  that 
would  answer  all  those  questions  that  now  consumed 
her. 

If  she  could  but  see  her  once,  that  other  woman 
.  .  .  could  once  understand  Horace's  reasons  .  .  . 
she  could  perhaps  settle  into  comparative  quiet. 
Now  she  knew  herself  desperately  concerned  with 
futility,  with  shame  .  .  .  knew  herself  eaten  up  by 
this  curious  feverish  wildness  .  .  .  she  could  give 
it  no  better  name.  Was  she  failing  physically,  as 
well  as  in  other  ways?  Her  heart  hurt  her  often 
now  .  .  .  sometimes  she  could  not  sleep  for  it  ... 
she  who  had  always  slept!  and  this  restlessness! 
which  drove  her  to  constant  effort,  yet  never 
healthily  tired  her.  ...  If  Horace  had  died,  how 
happily,  in  comparison  with  this,  could  she  have 
mourned  him!  ...  a  genuine  overwhelming  grief, 
with  no  evil  shadow  on  it,  no  bitterness  in  it  ... 
only  sorrow  for  so  brilliant  a  life  cut  short.  If  he 
should  die  even  now  she  would  welcome  it.  She 
would  forget  his  disloyalty  in  mourning  him  faith- 
fully. 

Yet  Katty  had  said  there  was  no  bitterness  like 
Death.  "Everything  else  we  can  live  down.  .  .  . 
Death  remains  the  one  insurmountable  fact." 


198      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

No,  treachery  was  the  insurmountable.  Katty  had 
never  known  treachery. 

She  looked  again  at  her  sister's  card.  "Think 
you  should  see  Daphne."  Was  Daphne  ill?  She 
was  never  ill.  But  if  Katty  touched  ever  so  lightly 
on  a  matter  it  meant  there  was  a  reason.  She  would 
go  to  the  convent  tomorrow.  She  had  neglected  the 
child,  as  she  had  neglected  everything. 

Despite  late  autumn,  Crystal  found  an  armful  of 
pale  roses  to  take  up  to  town  that  Monday  morning. 
She  rejoiced  to  turn  over  her  lively  brood  to  the 
capable  little  governess  who  bicycled  out  each  day 
to  teach  Bedelia  and  Bobby.  Miss  Tuckett  would 
now  remain  over  night  whenever  Crystal  was  away, 
and  would  undertake  the  three  Belgians  in  addition 
to  the  small  Americans. 

'  "Good-bye,  darlings  all!"  called  Mummie,  as  the 
fly  bore  her  away.  "Be  happy  and  good  till  I  come 
back  Thursday."  And  the  five,  not  to  speak  of  Finn 
McCoul,  Alicia  Mooney  and  Obadiah,  shouted 
vociferous  farewells. 

Arrived  in  London,  Crystal  went  directly  to  the 
convent.  She  had  telegraphed  Reverend  Mother 
that  she  was  coming,  and  Sister  Martina  took  her 
up  at  once  to  see  Daphne. 

"Oh,  Crystal,  did  you  know  how  much  I  wished 
to  see  you?"  exclaimed  the  pretty  creature,  the 
moment  her  friend  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the 
grill 

"Katty  sent  me  a  post  card  yesterday  to  say  I 


THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN  199 

ought  to  come,  dearest  child,"  answered  Crystal, 
"but  she  did  not  explain  .  .  .  you  know  Katty." 

"How  like  you  both !"  laughed  Daphne,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes.  "Katty's  card,  and  your  coming  at 
once!  But  are  you  ill,  Crystal?  I've  never  seen 
you  look  pale  before." 

"Am  I  pale?  So  are  you,  child.  I  reproached 
myself  when  Katty's  card  came  for  letting  all  these 
months  go  by.  ...  But  you  know,  perhaps  even 
here,  what  these  months  since  the  war  have  meant." 

"Yes,  Katty  has  told  me  .  .  .  you  know  how 
unwilling  she  is  to  influence  anyone  .  .  .  almost  as 
conscientious  as  you  are,  Crystal  dearest.  But  now 
she  says,  in  so  many  words,  that  it  is  my  sacred 
duty,  as  I  speak  Flemish,  to  come  back  into  the 
world  and  help." 

Crystal  was  frankly  surprised.  "Katty  must  feel 
very  strongly,"  she  said  at  last,  "to  advise  so  radical 
a  course  as  that.  How  do  you  feel  yourself, 
Daphne?" 

"It's  like  giving  up  Heaven  for  the  other  place," 
said  Daphne  with  a  little  laugh.  "I  thought  before 
I  entered  here  that  the  war  had  made  the  whole 
world  into  the  other  place.  Is  it  my  duty  to  go 
down  into  it?  I  am  not  yet  a  nun  ...  I  am  only 
a  postulant  still,"  and  she  lifted  very  sad  eyes  to  her 
friend.  "But  you  will  answer  me  honestly,  CrystaL 
Can  I  do  enough  for  others  with  my  small  amount 
of  Flemish  to  offset  my  own  loss  here?" 

"If  you  could  see  Katty  .  .  ."  Crystal  hesitated 
.  .  .  "unfailing,  untired,  uncomplaining  .  .  .  giving 
every  moment  of  her  existence!,  that  should  be 


200      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

divided  amongst  so  many  claimants  .  .  .  every, 
moment  to  her  Flemings!  And  now  her  boys  are 
coming.  What  time  will  she  have  for  them?" 

"She  didn't  tell  me  that,"  Daphne  interrupted. 

"She  is  wild  to  go  out  to  Blundell.  How  can  she 
leave  her  post?  She  is  mad  to  help  Serbia  .  .  . 
even  more  than  Belgium  she  thinks  Serbia  has  been 
the  martyr  among  nations  .  .  .  and  she  has  not 
a  moment  .  .  .  literally  not  one.  I've  watched  her. 
I  help  her  .  .  .  but  I  speak  no  Flemish  .  .  .  and 
if  you  knew  what  it  meant  to  those  poor  peasants  to 
find  a  friend  .  .  .  such  a  friend!  to  talk  to  them 
...  to  explain  to  them  ...  to  understand  them !" 

"And  I  could  help  .  .  .  '  Daphne  said  almost  to 
herself. 

Crystal  had  walked  to  the  little  window  to  conceal 
her  tears,  so  that  when  Daphne  said  "Where  is  Uncle 
Horace  now?"  she  could  hide  her  sudden  flush  as 
well.  All  the  blood  in  her  body  seemed  to  suffuse 
her  face.  "In  the  Argentine,"  she  replied. 

"When  does  he  return?"  pursued  Daphne,  with 
what  seemed  to  Crystal  surprising  persistence. 

"Not  for  a  long  time,  I  fancy,"  she  answered,  as 
quietly  as  she  could.  "Perhaps  never." 

She  had  the  curious  sensation  that  in  some  way 
this  decided  Daphne,  although  she  made  no  com- 
ment, and  gave  no  indication  of  her  decision. 
Why  should  Horace's  movements  affect  his  ward? 

"I  must  go  now,  Daphne  child,"  Crystal  said.  "I 
am  helping  two  days  a  week  at  Katty's  Hostel." 

"Katty  told  me.  She  says  they  call  you  'the 
Children's  Angel'  there  .  .  .  'Het  Engeltje  voor 


THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN  201 

die  Kinderen'  .  .  .  when  they  don't  call  you  'Het 
Witte  Dame.' " 

The  White  Lady  smiled  at  her.  "You  can  guess 
what  appeal  the  children  make  to  me,"  she  said. 
"There  are  three  of  them  now  at  the  Pond  House 
with  my  two."  But  coming  closer  to  the  grill  to 
say  "Good-bye,"  she  asked, 

"What  have  you  done  to  your  lovely  hair, 
Daphne?" 

"I  gouged  off  a  handful  a  few  days  ago,  myself. 
You  know  when  one  becomes  a  nun  'tis  all  cut.  I 
had  a  feeling  I  wanted  to  cut  it  myself,  to  prove  I 
was  my  own  agent." 

Crystal  looked  at  her  with  smiling  eyes. 

"I  know  what  you're  thinking,"  Daphne  flashed 
at  her.  "You're  thinking  that  is  not  the  contem- 
plative spirit." 

"Something  like  that,"  admitted  Crystal.  "I 
talked  of  you  the  other  day  to  a  lovely  Irish  Mother 
Superior,  a  friend  of  mine.  She  said  no  American 
belonged  naturally  to  the  contemplative  orders  .  .  . 
too  independent  a  race,  she  said  we  were,  for  the 
cloistered  life." 

"O  Crystal!"  broke  out  Daphne,  without  answer- 
ing this.  "I've  been  so,  so  happy  here!  If  the 
world  outside  knew  the  happiness  inside  these  walls, 
you  wouldn't  be  able  to  sweep  people  off  our  steps 
.  .  .  they'd  clamour  so  to  get  in!" 

"One  sees  it  in  your  face,  Daphne,  and  in  Sister 
Martina's." 

"What  wouldn't  I  give  to  show  you  my  little 
room !  overlooking  the  convent  garden  ?  .  .  .  Never 


202      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

in  my  life  have  I  awakened  every  morning  to  such 
pure  pleasure  as  rny  window  gives  me.  Even  now, 
in  November,  the  birds  sing  there  as  though  they 
knew  what  bliss  were  inside.  What  love  and  prayers 
and  exaltation!" 

"You  are  aware  of  what  I  feel  about  influencing 
any  opinion,  my  child,"  said  Crystal  gravely.  "But 
this  I  can  say :  whatever  you  do,  my  heart  and  my 
house  are  both  yours  to  come  to  or  to  leave.  Do 
you  believe  me,  Daphne?" 

"Was  there  ever  anyone  in  the  world  who  did 
not  believe  and  love  and  honour  you,  Crystal?" 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other  through 
those  mediaeval  iron  bars.  Then  Crystal  held  out 
the  roses  she  carried.  Daphne  pushed  a  little  re- 
volving drawer  under  the  shelf  on  which  she  leaned. 
Crystal  dropped  her  flowers  into  it  and  Daphne 
pulled  it  back  to  her  side.  It  was  the  only  means 
by  which  anything  could  pass  the  grill. 

"I  shall  offer  them  to  Our  Lady  for  your  inten- 
tion," Daphne  said. 

Crystal  smiled  at  her  without  speaking,  and  then 
left  her. 

Katty's  boys  were  not  to  arrive  till  Wednesday 
afternoon,  so  Crystal  did  not  go  to  Cadogan  Square 
till  that  evening.  She  devoted  the  interim  to  pur- 
chases for  her  small  Belgian  guests ;  and  as  she  had 
long  promised  a  visit  to  the  Peter  Nortons,  she  spent 
the  Monday  and  Tuesday  nights  there. 

Alicia  had  now  been  several  weeks  in  Serbia,  and 
her  mother  read  Crystal  some  really  delightful  let- 
ters from  the  girl. 


THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN  203 

"All  this  is  humanising  my  daughter,"  she  said. 
"Without  some  appeal  to  her  sympathies  she  would 
have  grown  into  a  Gorgon!" 

"Horrible  of  you,  Aileen,"  protested  Crystal. 
"Of  course  she  was  austere.  I  believe  the  younger 
generation  is  always  firm  with  its  elders.  But  a 
husband  and  babies  will  modify  that." 

"Do  you  realise  that  she  and  your  nephew  Hazle- 
by  adore  each  other?"  asked  Aileen  in  her  best  en- 
fant terrible  manner. 

"I've  wondered,"  Crystal  answered.  "Does 
Katty  know?" 

"I  think  not.  Alicia  told  me  when  she  left. 
Hazleby  was  to  tell  his  mother  on  his  return." 

"What  an  excellent  combination!"  said  Crystal, 
heartily.  She  was  too  American  to  add  "What 
beautiful  children  they  should  have!"  But  she 
thought  it.  ...  Hazleby  so  dark  and  gay,  Alicia  so 
blonde  and  severe  .  .  .  both  tall  and  handsome,  both 
the  children  of  handsome  parents.  She  contented 
herself  with  saying, 

"The  second  generation  is  all  that  counts  these 
days." 

"Katty'd  say  the  third,  and  that's  what  you're 
thinking,"  Aileen  told  her  impishly. 

The  two  were  alone  that  night,  but  next  evening 
Peter  brought  Meredith  Dyfed  home  to  dinner. 
Both  men  admired  Crystal  enormously,  and  she 
found  an  unconscious  solace  in  their  eyes.  Both 
had  had  letters  "from  your  delightful  friend 
Dimock"  and  Crystal  was  pleased  that  she  could  ask 
quietly, 


204      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"He's  undertaking  huge  contracts  for  southern 
Europe,"  Peter  answered.  "His  Bovo  is  ideal  food 
for  transportation." 

"Another  American  fortune!"  gibed  Aileen. 

"That's  unfair,"  said  her  husband  quickly. 
"America  has  made  no  more  money,  proportionately, 
than  was  her  due.  Had  conditions  been  reversed,  we 
should  have  been  getting  rich  while  the  Americans 
fought." 

"As  you  did  in  our  Civil  War,"  said  Crystal, 
with  unlooked-for  vivacity. 

"Touche!"  admitted  Dyfed.  "But  it  will  be  a 
great  day  when  the  two  English  speaking  nations 
see  eye  to  eye,  eh,  Peter  ?" 

Norton's  gaze  seemed  to  rest  on  something  they 
could  not  see.  "Your  great  nation,  Crystal,"  he 
said,  "will  not  fail  us.  There's  an  idealism  in  the 
American  spirit  that  some  of  us  don't  realise.  That 
is  what,  in  the  end,  will  bring  the  English  speaking 
races  together." 

"I  have  had  that  vision,  too,"  said  Crystal,  very 
quietly,  remembering  Merton  and  Hazleby. 

"And  when  we  do  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
understanding  each  other  at  last,  on  that  day  the 
millenium  will  dawn !" 

"You  mean  America  and  England  together  will 
police  the  world?"  said  Dyfed,  practically. 

"Materialist!"  scoffed  Norton.  "It's  more  than 
that.  It's  the  idealism  under  the  two  unlikely  ex- 
teriors, English  and  American,  that  will  set  up,  un- 


THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN  205 

consciously,  a  standard  by  which  the  world  must 
live  and  die." 

"My  nephews  come  back  tomorrow,"  said  Crystal. 
"There  was  a  concrete  instance  of  America's  stand- 
ing by  England." 

"Katty's  splendid  boys!"  Peter  turned  an  illum- 
ined face  toward  her.  "Those  two  were  worth  a 
regiment  to  us,  coming  in  at  the  first  call !  Not  an 
English  heart  but  beat  to  know  that  those  two  young 
Americans  so  testified  in  our  favour,  it  might  easily 
have  been  with  their  lives !" 

And  indeed,  next  night  at  Cadogan  Square  seemed 
to  Crystal  the  loosing  of  all  America  into  the 
English  ranks. 

Katty's  boys  were  tall  and  exhilaratingly  vigor- 
ous; their  mother  called  them  the  Combination 
Harvard  Cyclone.  Both  were  dark,  keen  of  eye, 
with  the  smallish  nose  and  big  chin  of  the  type  now 
accepted  as  American.  Merton  wore  a  pince-nez, 
and  was  a  trifle  shorter  than  his  junior,  but  they 
were  otherwise  extraordinarily  alike  and  extraor- 
dinarily unlike  their  mother.  Little  Katty's  white 
hair  and  blue-grey  quizzical  glance  behind  the 
wicked  monocle  removed  her  infinitely  from  the, 
warm  brown  eyes,  and  crisply  brown  clipped  hair 
of  her  tall  boys. 

"But  I  gave  them  a  sense  of  humour,  if  nothing 
else,  glory  be !"  she  said. 

"And  it's  American  humour,  too,"  laughed 
Hazleby.  "No  Irish  need  apply!" 

"  'Tis  all  I  have  against  them,  or  nearly  all. 
They're  as  un-Irish  as  their  Mayflower  ancestors 


206      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

.  .  .  and  wirra,  wirra!  there's  never  a  taste  of  the 
brogue  on  either  tongue." 

"Indeed,  the  Mater's  always  said  our  voices  were 
like  tearing  calico,"  Merton  improved  this,  as  he 
stood  with  his  arm  around  Crystal's  shoulder,  look- 
ing affectionately  from  her  to  his  mother.  He  had 
always  been  Crystal's  boy,  as  Hazleby  was  Katty's. 

"Don't  tell  me  you  love  all  your  children  in  the 
same  way,"  Katty  would  assert.  "It's  a  mental  and 
physical  impossibility.  Does  one  feel  the  same  for 
any  two  human  beings  ?" 

But  as  they  seated  themselves  at  dinner,  she  went 
on,  "Diversely  as  I  love  you,  my  sons,  and  little  as 
I  love  your  appalling  American  voices,  it's  like 
having  the  Breath  of  Heaven  blow  through  Cadogan 
Square  to  hear  your  racket." 

"The  Breath  of  Heaven  would  sure  be  powerful," 
grinned  Merton.  "I  suppose  that's  what  bangs  the 
doors,  hey,  Grimmer?  But  it's  new  to  fix  an 
American  flavour  on  it!" 

"Take  a  fond  parent  .  .  ."  began  Hazleby. 

"Take  care,  too,"  warned  Crystal.  "Your 
mother's  been  spoiled  lately  by  another  son,  a  very 
wonderful  person." 

"Oh,  that  Serbian  Johnny,"  Hazleby  knew  at 
once.  "Our  noses  are  out  of  joint  all  right.  He's 
spilled  our  beans  with  the  Mater." 

"It's  the  beauty  of  the  beast  we  hear  most  of," 
put  in  Merton. 

"Beauty's  the  word,  and  beast  distinctly  isn't," 
Crystal  replied.  "He's  a  figure  out  of  romance. 
And  he  adores  your  Mater." 


THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN  207 

"That's  easy,"  Hazleby  smiled  at  his  parent. 
"We  do  too,  but  we  don't  let  her  know  it." 

"She  doesn't  even  suspect  it,"  confirmed  his 
brother.  "But  what's  the  Balkan  crackerjack's 
name?" 

"Dakovich  .  .  .  Stefan  Dakovich,"  said  Crystal 

"And  his  friends?" 

"Captain  Boyovich." 

"And  that  other  ...  the  aide  we  met  last 
spring  ?" 

"Collovich." 

"Dakovich,  Boyovich,  Collovich.  .  .  .  Great 
Godfrey !  Thinkovich!" 

"You  villains!  I'll  not  have  Serbia  taken 
lightly,"  remonstrated  his  mother. 

"Now  see  here,  Mater,  you  won't  let  us  take  Ire- 
land lightly  ...  if  it's  going  to  be  'hands  off!' 
Serbia  too,  you  might  as  well  roll  up  the  map  of 
Europe." 

"And  why  wouldn't  I  ?  Looking  at  you  two  one 
might  as  well  .  .  .  was  there  ever  anything  more 
un-European,  more  blatantly  American,  than  my 
progeny?^  asked  Katty. 

"It's  interesting,"  Crystal  answered.  "The  in- 
evitable comparison  between  young  America  and 
older  Europe  .  .  .  and  of  course  the  differences  be- 
tween New  York  and  Serbia  are  incalculable." 

"I  wish  Thinkovich  were  here  this  minute," 
Hazleby  remarked.  "We  could  measure  up. 
There's  something  to  him  of  course,  if  the  Mater 
likes  him  so  much." 

"You  two  resemble  him  so  closely  it's  funny," 


208      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Crystal  mused,  "considering  you're  as  unlike  as  ... 
as  .  .  ." 

"Say,  Chili  con  carne  and  ice  cream,"  Merton 
assisted  her. 

"Just  about.  Yet  if  you  were  getting  your  pass- 
ports the  personal  descriptions  would  be  the  same 
...  all  three  tall,  slender,  dark ;  brown  hair,  brown 
eyes,  small  black  moustaches,  big  chins,"  Crystal 
finished. 

"Only  your  noses  would  be  different,"  put  in 
Katty. 

"And  our  beautiful  natures,"  insisted  Hazleby. 
"Now  speak  up,  Mater.  Which  disposition  do  you 
choose  .  .  .  American  or  Serbian?" 

"For  daily  comfort,  the  American.  For  a  finer 
idealism,  the  Serb.  Stefan  wouldn't  think  of  those 
little  attentions  you  two  render  all  women,  and  most 
men,  so  easily.  You,  on  the  other  hand,  wouldn't 
put  your  country  first,  except  at  a  great  moment 
.  .  .  wouldn't  pre-occupy  yourselves  with  it  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  personal  interests." 

"Do  you  mean  an  American  thinks  of  his  family 
first,  a  Serb  of  his  country?"  Merton  asked  this. 

"Exactly.  Listen  now  to  Stefan's  letter.  Grim- 
mer, 'tis  in  that  desk  behind  me."  And  when  Grim- 
mer had  brought  it,  Katty  read  aloud : 

"Belgrade,  October,   1919. 

"Dear  Majka: 

"This  is  my  first  day  of  freedom  since  I  left  you 
in  July.  We  are  reconstructing  our  government  .  .  . 
and  building  anew  our  poor  country.  Gloriously, 


THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN  209 

Majka!  But  the  future  has  a  black  cloud.  There 
is  an  enemy  worse  than  the  Austrians,  an  enemy  who 
pretends  to  be  a  friend;  and  on  our  west  perhaps  is 
Death,  lurking  behind  treachery.  The  black  cloud 
covers  both.  You  will  hear  soon  of  strange  things  in 
Serbia.  I  kiss  your  hands. 

"Your  Stefan." 


"It  was  posted  at  Antivari,"  Lady  Freke  said,  a 
little  tremulously.  "Evidently  Stefan  is  down 
there." 

Hazleby  had  come  around  his  mother's  chair, 
ostensibly  to  look  over  her  shoulder,  but  really  to 
rub  his  cheek  against  hers;  and  Merton  said, 
seriously, 

"He's  the  right  sort,  your  Serbian  is,  Mater." 

It  was,  curiously,  as  though  Stefan  stood  there, 
Crystal  thought  .  .  .  strange  uncomprehended  repre- 
sentative of  an  uncomprehended  country  .  .  .  the 
traditions  of  five  hundred  years  of  suffering  behind 
him  .  .  .  amongst  these  moderns,  to  whom  war, 
until  1917,  had  been  only  a  name. 

"You're  thinking  we  Americans  cut  a  poor  figure, 
Tante  Crystal,"  said  Merton,  who  always  under- 
stood her. 

"You  and  Hazleby  cut  a  pretty  fine  figure,  coming 
to  fight  for  the  Allies  before  ever  we  entered  the 
war,"  his  aunt  smiled  proudly  at  him.  "And  after 
all,  your  Mater's  handsome  Serb  officer  had  to  fight 
for  his  country.  You  two  came  to  fight  for  another 
country  before  your  own  was  in  at  all!" 

"It  was  a  time  when  duty,  not  your  own  will,. 


210      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

looked  plain,"  Merton  answered,  with  his  young 
sternness. 

"Peter  Norton  always  swore  we'd  act  the  moment 
we  realised  the  issue,"  Crystal  commented. 

"Yes,  it  was  no  joke  to  bring  home  the  truth. to 
a  hundred  million  people,  the  nearest  of  them  three 
thousand  miles  away,"  Merton  admitted.  And 
later,  when  he  and  Crystal  sat  by  the  fire  while 
Hazleby  and  his  mother  telephoned  to  the  Nortons, 
he  said, 

"Is  Daphne  going  to  have  the  truth  brought  home 
to  her,  Tante  Crystal  ?" 

"Your  Mater's  told  you  that  she's  urged  her 
coming  out  to  help  the  reconstruction  work 
generally,  and  our  Flemings  particularly  ?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  will  she?  That  London  convent 
is  farther  away  than  San  Francisco.  Holy  Smoke ! 
It's  a  waste,  her  being  there.  Think  what  Alicia's 
doing!"  (The  engagement  between  Hazleby  and 
Alicia  had  already  been  talked  of). 

Crystal  pictured  the  two  girls  for  him  .  .  . 
"Alicia  a  girl  Crusader,  riding  her  modern  automo- 
bile into  wild  country,  saving  sick  and  wounded. 
Daphne  a  saint  behind  iron  bars,  praying  for  the 
world." 

"Think  what  it  has  meant  to  old  Haze,"  Merton 
said,  apparently  absorbed  in  rolling  a  cigarette.  "To 
have  had  Alicia  as  well  as  a  great  cause  to  fight  for !" 

"More  than  that  ...  I  suppose  the  great  cause 
must  have  seemed  to  him  Alicia,  and  Alicia  the 
great  cause,"  Crystal  smiled,  wondering  if  Merton, 


THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN  211 

bless  him !  wished  that  he  could  personify  a  cause  in 
his  lovely  cousin  Daphne. 

They  talked  late  that  evening,  all  four  around  the 
fire,  the  boys  rolling  their  own  cigarettes,  Katty 
smoking  her  Irish  ones,  Crystal  knitting  a  sweater 
for  Ri-Ri.  In  every  assembly,  Crystal  thought 
those  present  are  the  seen  and  the  unseen.  For 
Katty,  Blundell.  For  Hazleby,  Alicia.  Perhaps 
Daphne  for  Merton  .  .  .  for  herself,  the  only  false 
note  in  that  intimate  circle  .  .  .  Horace.  So  they 
seemed  to  be  seated,  not  four,  but  eight,  around  the 
glorious  fire  Grimmer  himself  came  in  so  often  to 
look  after,  altho'  it  was  not  his  duty.  But  he  could 
not  pass  either  son  of  the  house  without  pausing  in 
a  kind  of  benignity  to  ask  "Can  I  get  you  anything, 
sir?" 

The  talk  too  touched  softly  on  the  absent  ones, 
even  on  Horace,  although  the  boys  had  never  cared 
much  for  him.  Crystal,  watching  the  firelight  on  the 
young  vivid  faces,  bent  in  temporary  absorption 
over  the  making  of  a  cigarette  or  turned  eagerly 
toward  their  mother  or  herself  .  .  .  knowing  them 
sound  to  the  core,  as  kind  as  they  were  brave  and 
honest  .  .  .  yet  wondered  if  either  would  one  day 
make  a  woman  unhappy.  Horace's  handsome  head 
seemed  beside  theirs  in  the  firelit  gloom  .  .  .  not 
less  handsome,  not  less  alertly  American.  And 
dear  old  English  Blundell,  watching  his  lively  New 
York  wife  with  affectionate  patience.  And  the  two 
girls,  who  were  perhaps  to  mean  the  future  to  those 
beloved  boys  ...  all  these  Crystal  felt  near  her, 
seeing  them  through  the  veil  of  her  own  poignant 


212      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

experience,  and  certain,  in  the  way  war  had  made 
death  certain,  that  she  would  never  see  them  there 
again  .  .  .  even  in  spirit.  "And  on  our  west  per- 
haps is  Death,  lurking  behind  Treachery,"  beautiful 
Stefan  had  written.  He  meant  a  human  menace 
.  .  .  but  Crystal  said  to  herself  that  she,  and  all  of 
them,  meant  the  chances  of  life.  The  chances  would 
betray  them  «  .  .  and  of  those  eight,  the  four  who 
sat  around  the  fire,  the  four  who  seemed  to  sit  there, 
how  many  would  remain  ? 
******* 

Crystal  had  arranged  to  be  early  at  the  Hostel 
next  morning  so  that  Katty  might  have  a  lazy 
breakfast  with  her  boys.  She  had  already  been 
there  an  hour  when  she  was  called  to  the  telephone. 

It  was  Katty.  "And  who  do  you  suppose  ap- 
peared on  the  door  mat  at  nine  this  morning  as  ever 
is?"  asked  her  sister's  warm  clear  voice. 

"Not  Blundell?"  Crystal  spoke  quickly,  longing  to 
say  "Not  Horace?" 

"Sister  Mary  of  the  Incarnation,  no  less!  back  in 
the  world  ...  to  help  the  Flemings,  to  help  you  and 
me,  my  dear.  She's  even  going  to  Holland  for  me. 
And  Crystal,  she  needs  you.  She's  got  to  be 
mothered  .  .  .  'tis  a  ghost  of  a  Daphne.  I'll  be 
down  at  once,  and  you  arrange  to  come  back  here." 

"I'll  take  her  immediately  to  the  Pond  House," 
Crystal  decided.  "There's  no  solace  for  a  sore 
heart  like  Oxfordshire." 

"Good  .  .  .  she  can  practise  her  Flemish  on 
Simonne,"  Katty  suggested,  "and  study  enough  to 
get  t*»dc  her  facility  before  she  goes  to  Holland." 


THE  HEART  OF  A  NUN  213 

"Big  Ben"  was  striking  noon  as  Crystal's  taxi 
passed  the  House  of  Commons.  A  moment  later  it 
stopped  at  the  North  entrance  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  for  Crystal,  being  Crystal,  meant  to  say  a 
prayer  in  that  splendid  tranquillity  .  .  .  not  so 
much  a  prayer,  as  a  moment's  marshalling  of  her 
forces  .  .  .  Daphne  would  need  the  wisest,  tender- 
est  handling. 

Twenty  minutes  later  she  knocked  at  the  door  of 
the  delicious  blue  and  white  guest  room  that 
sheltered  this  new  refugee.  It  was  a  pallid  Daphne 
who  opened  to  her  .  .  .  with  dark  circles  under  the 
lovely  eyes.  Crystal  had  brought  her  some  violets 
from  the  florist  close  to  the  Abbey,  and  their  perfume 
was  like  a  caress. 

"Crystal,  you  don't  believe  I'm  any  the  less  a  good 
Catholic,  do  you?"  Daphne  broke  out  at  once. 

"No,  my  child,  why  should  I?"  said  Crystal, 
closing  the  door  and  drawing  Daphne  toward  the 
fire. 

"Because  I'm  a  deserter,  a  renegade.  I've  put 
my  hand  to  the  plough  .  .  .  and  looked  backward." 

"No,  dearest,  you've  looked  forward,  and  put 
your  hand  to  another  plough." 

"You  always  knew  how  to  comfort  me,  Crystal, 
even  when  I  was  very  little.  But  all  the  same,  don't 
think,  don't  let  anyone  else  think,  that  my  devotion 
to  my  faith  has  weakened.  You're  not  a  Catholic. 
Perhaps  you'll  not  understand." 

"No,  my  dear,  I  am  a  heathen,"  her  friend 
answered.  "But  if  anyone  can  once  accept  a  faith,, 
why  should  any  event  affect  that  faith?" 


214      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"No,  not  events  .  .  .  but  conditions.  I'm  wrong; 
not  the  events,  not  the  war,  not  my  vocation  .  .  . 
it's  something  else.  A  real  Catholic,  a  real  nun, 
would  not  have  come  out  ...  no  matter  what  the 
call  was." 

"What  was  it  then,  my  child?"  asked  Crystal. 

Daphne  looked  at  her  with  both  smiles  and  tears, 
a  curious  astonishment  and  humour  in  her  beautiful 
eyes  as  she  said, 

"I  suppose  it's  my  damned  Protestant  ancestors !" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  NUN  IN   HARNESS 

OCTOBER  slipped  into  November,  and  the  Pond 
House  was  bleak  without  and  glowing  with  fires  and 
gaiety  within. 

Daphne  adored  children  almost  as  much  as  Crystal 
did,  and  the  weeks  in  that  lively  environment  soon 
restored  her  peace  of  mind.  Simonne  naturally  be- 
came her  special  charge.  It  was  arranged  that  only 
English  should  be  spoken  before  midday,  and  only 
Flemish  and  French  after.  By  the  middle  of  No- 
vember Simonne's  affectionate  and  unceasing 
chatter  (she  was  making  up,  poor  child,  for  months 
of  silence!)  had  made  Flemish  an  easy  accomplish- 
ment for  Daphne.  French  she  had  always  spoken 
with  reasonable  ease. 

Crystal  therefore  planned  to  introduce  her  soon  at 
the  Hostel,  so  that  she  and  Daphne  between  them 
would  take  Katty's  place,  and  that  little  lady  could 
go  for  a  holiday  to  her  sons. 

Daphne  had  not  seen  her  cousins  when  she  ap- 
peared originally  in  Cadogan  Square,  and  still 
shrank,  it  seemed,  from  the  encounter.  Merton  had 
written  her  several  times,  gay,  slangy  letters, 
keenly  observant  of  post-war  conditions  and  deeply 
interested  in  the  technique  of  his  work.  She 


216      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

showed  them  to  Crystal,  her  only  comment, 
generally,  "A  dear  boy."  Was  she  too  good  a 
Catholic,  Crystal  wondered,  to  allow  herself  to 
think  of  a  cousin  as  anything  but  a  cousin?  Yet 
how  Katty  would  have  loved  a  marriage  between 
those  two!  Crystal  could  hear  her  saying: 

"Cousins?  Yes.  But  there  are  cousins  and 
cousins.  And  Daphne  all  Irish,  Merton  all  May- 
flower, are  as  far  apart  mentally  and  physically,  as 
Dublin  and  Plymouth  Rock." 

But  neither  Crystal  nor  Daphne  talked  much 
except  to  discuss  reconstruction  problems  or  the 
needs  of  the  villagers  at  their  door. 

Some  ten  days  before  Christmas  they  went  up  to 
town.  At  the  entrance  to  the  Hostel  they  met  the 
gate  keeper,  Monsieur  Theysskens,  who  said,  when 
he  was  introduced  to  Daphne,  "But  surely  Mademoi- 
selle is  Madame' s  sister?  The  resemblance  is 
striking." 

And  Katty,  watching  them  come  across  the  big 
room  together,  also  said,  "My  dears,  you're  as  like 
as  two  of  St.  Joseph's  lilies !" 

"And  I  might  be  Daphne's  mother!"  Crystal  re- 
buked her. 

"Katty  knows  I  don't  think  of  you  as  a  mother," 
Daphne  smiled.  "Rather  as  the  loveliest  sister  in 
the  world." 

"Stefan  tells  me  that  in  Serbia  a  man  loves  a 
sister  more  than  anyone  else,"  said  Lady  Freke. 

Daphne  looked  at  them  both  affectionately.  "Out 
of  Serbia,"  she  said,  "I  know  of  two  sisters  some 
one  loves  far  more  than  anyone  else." 


THE  NUN  IN  HARNESS  217 

"Nice  child!"  the  sisters  smiled  back  at  her. 

"Stefan  is  the  Serbian  you  find  so  like  the  boys?" 
Daphne  asked. 

"Yes,  that  is  another  surprising  resemblance. 
He's  more  beautiful  .  .  ."  Katty  began. 

"But  less  efficient,"  Crystal  took  her  up.  "And 
as  for  beauty,  one  type  is  American,  the  other 
Montenegrin.  Her  Serbian  is  mediaeval,  our 
Americans  are  modern." 

Did  both  sisters  think  at  that  moment  that  for 
either  Serb  or  American  Daphne  would  be  an  ex- 
traordinarily fitting  mate?  Yet  for  some  reason 
Horace,  not  his  juniors,  dominated  the  short  silence 
that  followed.  The  would-be  nun  stood  quietly 
before  them.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  furs. 
They  studied,  perhaps  unconsciously,  the  black 
braids  around  the  fine  head,  the  wide  serious  blue 
green  eyes,  the  straight  black  brows,  the  slim  figure 
in  its  austere  black  gown,  a  little  square  of  white  at 
the  smooth  throat. 

"Like  and  unlike,"  Katty  said  to  herself,  looking 
from  Daphne  to  Crystal.  "No  wonder  Horace 
Dimock  admired  both." 

"Like  what  I  wish  I  were,"  thought  Crystal,  re- 
garding the  girl.  "Perhaps  Horace  wouldn't  have 
found  a  new  love  if  I  had  looked  like  Daphne." 

"Unlike  as  two  sisters  can  be,"  thought  Daphne, 
glancing  fondly  at  the  older  woman.  "Alike  only 
in  their  kind  hearts.  What  would  they  say  to  know 
Uncle  Horace,  their  trusted  friend,  had  acted  as  he 
did  in  the  convent?" 

But    visions    were    scattered    by    an   entrancing 


2i8      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

actuality.  "Mater!"  a  big  boyish  voice  shouted. 
They  all  turned  to  see  the  tall  figure  of  radiant 
young  America  .  .  .  coming  in  long  strides  across 
the  big  room. 

"This  is  the  greatest  piece  of  luck  in  two  con- 
tinents !"  sang  out  Merton's  enthusiastic  voice,  as  the 
boy  caught  all  three  women  in  one  big  armful. 

"God  is  good  to  the  Irish!"  said  his  mother 
piously,  shaking  herself  a  little  as  he  released  them. 
"Crystal  and  Daphne  have  come  up  this  day  to  take 
over  my  work  here  so  that  I  can  go  down  to  you 
and  Hazleby." 

"Good  news,  I've  leave  for  the  day  only.  We'll 
go  down  on  the  afternoon  train." 

He  held  his  mater's  hand,  but  looked  hard  at 
Daphne.  "It  hasn't  hurt  you,  Daffy,"  he  said  ad- 
miringly, "coming  out  of  the  Pound." 

"Going  in  didn't,  either,"  retorted  his  cousin. 
"And  khaki  hasn't  hurt  you,  Mr.  Second  Lieutenant 
Merty  Perty !" 

"Daffy-down-dilly, 
You  needn't  be  chilly." 

Merton  teased  his  cousin  in  the  parlance  of  their 
childhood. 

"No  ragging  today,  you  infants!"  said  Lady 
Freke.  "I  must  explain  things  here  to  Daphne. 
Merton,  you  walk  about  and  talk  half  an  hour  with 
Tante  Crystal.  Later  you  may  take  Daphne  out  to 
luncheon,  and  come  back  in  time  to  fetch  me  for  the 
train." 


THE  NUN  IN  HARNESS  219 

"Is  Hazleby  as  splendid?"  asked  Daphne,  when 
Crystal  and  Merton  had  strolled  away  together. 

"I'm  trying  not  to  look  the  fatuous  mother," 
answered  Lady  Freke.  "He's  more  so. 

"Yet  you  can  say  that  your  Serbian  is  handsomer 
still?" 

"Unmotherly,  but  just  He  is.  However,  let 
me  be  Flemish  Information,  now,  not  doting  parent." 

So  explanations,  vividly  illustrated  by  the  unend- 
ing cases,  followed  thick  and  fast.  The  executive 
ability  Katty  had  long  ago  discerned  in  the  girl 
came  at  once  to  the  surface.  Her  Flemish,  although 
slower  than  Katty's,  was  more  exact,  and  she  was 
soon  answering  questions  and  warming  to  the  work. 

Once  she  turned  to  Katty  in  perplexity.  "This 
man  asks,  Katty  dear,  if,  supposing  the  Americans 
hadn't  come  in,  the  English  wouldn't  have  been 
beaten  after  all?" 

Katty  smiled.  "This  is  not  the  first.  I  was 
asked  twenty  times  during  the  war  if  England 
wasn't  going  to  be  beaten?  And  I  had  always  the 
one  answer.  As  Merton  would  say,  they  ate  it  up. 
'Mijnheer.'  "  She  turned  to  Daphne's  questioner. 
(Katty  always  called  the  grimiest  peasant  'Mijn- 
heer!' in  her  friendly  incorrect  Flemish).  I  am 
American.  I  know  your  country  and  this  country 
and  my  own  country,  so  you  may  trust  me.  These 
English  have  never  been  beaten  but  once,  and  we 
Americans  beat  them,  and  we  were  English!" 

"Thank  you,  Madame,"  said  the  Fleming  simply. 

Daphne  felt  her  eyes  fill.     But  she  laughed  too. 


220      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"O  Katty!  where  is  Home  Rule  now?     And  how 
do  your  English  friends  take  that  statement?" 

"Oh,  Home  Rule.  .  .  .  I  mustn't  think  of  Ireland. 
My  dear  and  stupid  English  blocked  John  Redmond 
at  every  turn.  If  I  dwelt  upon  the  blunders  the 
War  Office  and  the  Government  of  Ireland  made  at 
every  turn,  little,  absurd,  persistent,  atrocious 
blunders,  I'd  turn  Sinn  Fein  myself!  as  indeed  all 
Ireland  will,  if  no  miracle  happens  to  prevent.  And 
as  to  my  English  friends  hearing  that  speech  about 
their  not  being  beaten,  except  once!  they  shrug  their 
shoulders  .  .  .  what  can  they  say  ?" 

Katty  was  able  to  leave  that  afternoon  with  the 
easy  feeling  that  at  last  she  had  a  capable  substitute. 
Daphne  would  stay  with  Crystal  in  Cadogan  Square, 
so  that  the  two  could  be  all  day  at  Katty's  desk. 

"The  nun  in  harness !"  smiled  Katty,  as  she  said 
"Good-bye,"  and  Merton  wrapped  her  in  her  furs. 
Daphne,  turning  honest  eyes  on  her  friend,  an- 
swered, 

"I  never  thought  to  say  I  was  glad  I'd  come  out, 
Katty.  But  now  I  say  it." 

"Just  to  be  kind  ...  on  a  big  scale  or  a  little  one 
.  .  .  that's  a  vocation,"  Lady  Freke  answered. 
"And  here  you'll  be  kind  on  a  big  scale.  Give 
thanks  for  the  chance!" 

"I  do,"  said  Daphne. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

TEA   FOR  THE  VILLAGE 

CRYSTAL,  Daphne  and  Merton  went  down  to  the 
Pond  House  on  Christmas  Eve.  Katty  and  Hazle- 
by  were  to  follow  on  Christmas  Day.  This  would 
enable  Lady  Freke  to  be  at  her  Hostel  that  morning 
for  her  special  cases,  and  for  the  distribution  of  the 
toys  Crystal,  needless  to  say,  had  left  for  the  exile 
children.  .  .  . 

Crystal  had  planned  a  quiet  Christmas,  as  on  New 
Year's  Eve  she  intended  to  have  a  tea  for  the  vil- 
lagers, and  every  energy  must  be  concentrated  upon 
that.  But  a  house  party  that  included  Katty's  big 
noisy  boys,  their  little  but  no  less  noisy  McClinton 
cousins,  not  to  speak  of  the  youthful  Belgians,  could 
not  under  any  circumstances  be  quiet. 

Mrs.  Rumbold  was  in  her  element.  "Qui-ut  or 
on-qui-ut,  says  I,  m'm,  if  you'll  excuse  the  liberty, 
m'm,  you  and  her  ladyship  and  Miss  Daphne  have 
worked  too  hard  for  they  Belgiums.  Not  that 
they  be  undeservin',  but  it  be  my  duty  to  have  the 
finest,  fattest  turkey  this  side  Wallingford.  And 
turkey  he  smells  good,  he  do !" 

And  when  the  family  gathered,  almost  more  than 
the  little  drawing  room  would  hold,  awaiting  formal 

221 


222      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

summons  to  the  blue  and  white  kitchen,  "Turkey  he 
certainly  did  smell  good." 

Katty,  Crystal,  Daphne,  Simonne  and  Bedelia 
were  all  in  white  .  .  .  the  big  officer  boys  in  their 
uniforms,  the  little  Belgians  and  Bobby  shining  and 
rosy.  "Distinctly  not  a  war  film!"  Hazleby  was 
saying  .  .  .  poor  Hazleby,  a  bit  wistful,  seeing 
Merton's  adoring  gaze  that  followed  Daphne  .  .  . 
when  a  motor  horn  sounded  outside  the  gate,  and 
Crystal  with  a  premonition  said,  "You  go,  Hazleby." 
And  who  should  step  out  of  the  car  but  a  laughing 
Alicia  into  her  lover's  arms  ?  A  long  planned  leave 
had  brought  her  home  that  morning  from  Cattaro ; 
and  it  had  been  easy  to  steal  her  father's  car,  and  to 
dash  down  to  the  Pond  House. 

"Hazleby's  vociferous  rapture  is  something  to 
mark  the  day,"  said  Hazleby's  mother,  as  her  son 
reluctantly  allowed  Alicia  to  be  conducted  upstairs 
to  change.  When  she  reappeared  in  a  few  moments, 
also  in  white,  Bedelia  said  contentedly,  "Now  .  .  . 
it's  nearly  a  perfect  party!  Of  course  Tante  Katty 
would  like  Uncle  Blundell  to  be  here.  But  I  hope 
nobody  minds  'cause  Uncle  Horace  isn't!" 

"Right  O,  Bedelia,"  said  Merton,  as  they  went  in 
to  dinner.  "We  don't  need  any  Bovo  in  ours !" 

"It's  summer  where  he  is,"  mused  Miss  Mc- 
Clinton.  "I  'spose  Uncle  Horace  is  sitting  in  a  fig 
leaf  under  a  parasol  and  drinking  iced  Bovo  now." 

And  Bobby  added,  "Very  likely  a  ...  you 
know,  Bedelia  .  .  .  will  get  him." 

"A    tarantula,"    said    Bedelia,    calmly.     "Very 


TEA  FOR  THE  VILLAGE  223 

likely  he's  eaten  up  by  lots  of  tarantulas  by  this 
time." 

But  the  Christmas  party,  lively  as  it  was,  must 
not  be  considered  important  compared  to  the  great 
event  .  .  .  the  tea  for  the  village  at  Pond  House  on 
New  Year's  Eve. 

Crystal  realised  that  her  venture  was  a  bold  one 
.  .  .  her  new  neighbours  did  not  know  her;  would 
they  distrust  the  stranger  who  planned  things  here- 
tofore unknown  in  Sallum  Prior?  Your  English 
villager,  particularly  in  out-of-the-way  places,  is 
your  unaltering  conservative  .  .  .  and  a  tea,  well 
as  one  knew  the  like  took  place  in  the  houses  of  the 
gentry  .  .  .  even  of  the  small  farmers  .  .  .  was 
something  to  be  carefully  considered. 

But  Miss  Laminda,  consulted  early,  took  up  a  firm 
stand  .  .  .  this  tea  was  to  be  for  the  general  good 
.  .  .  more,  for  the  general  honour  .  .  .  and  the 
little  postmistress,  in  the  pink  knitted  cap  with  the 
air  of  omniscience  she  so  well  understood  how  to  as- 
sume, made  it  clear  that  Sallum  Prior  was  to  have  a 
great  opportunity.  She  supplied  the  list  of  names 
.  .  .  for  fear  anyone  be  left  out.  She  induced  Farm- 
er Giles  to  tell  his  men  that  they  were  free  to  leave 
an  hour  ahead  of  time  on  the  momentous  occasion, 
and  when  Crystal,  the  day  after  Christmas,  went  a 
bit  timorously  on  her  round,  she  found  the  way 
comfortably  prepared.  The  procedure  was  the 
same;  a  knock  at  the  neat  door  ...  a  hearty  call 
to  "Come  in,  m'm,  and  yon  cheer  is  fair  to  set  on" 
.  .  .  Crystal's  friendly  announcement  ...  "I  hope 


224      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

you'll  take  tea  with  me  at  the  Pond  House  on  New 
Year's  Eve,  from  5  to  7  ...  to  see  our  Belgians, 
and  to  let  me  get  better  acquainted  with  my  neigh- 
bours." Then  the  enquiry  in  mock  solemnity,  be 
the  hearer  middle-aged  or  old  ...  "I  must  ask  you 
something  very  important.  Are  you  over  twenty?" 
The  listener  might  be  ninety  .  .  .  and  the  question 
would  be  received  with  chuckles  or  guffaws.  "It's 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I've  suspected  I  was  witty!" 
said  Crystal  afterwards. 

The  age  limit  was  necessary,  as  Pond  House 
would  never  hold  both  children  and  adults.  As  it 
was,  sixty  of  the  villagers  accepted,  always  with 
some  reservation  .  .  .  for  this  seemed  to  be  con- 
sidered polite  .  .  .  "If  so  be  all  is  well!"  But  all 
was  evidently  well,  for  the  sixty  came  on  the  event- 
ful evening. 

The  excitement  of  the  children,  when  the  time 
was  actually  at  hand,  bordered  on  the  hysterical ;  Ri 
Ri  in  particular  could  not  have  been  more  agitated 
were  the  Germans  approaching  Brussels.  A  lantern 
had  been  hung  at  the  outer  gate,  by  half  past  four, 
none  too  soon,  for  although  the  invitation  had  ex- 
plicitly been  for  five,  the  first  guests  arrived  a  half 
an  hour  ahead.  Chou-Chou,  deeply  impressed 
with  the  gravity  of  his  charge,  was  stationed  at  the 
gate,  where  he  called  loudly  to  each  embarrassed 
group  as  it  came  near  (practically  no  individual 
ventured  to  come  alone)  : 

"Please  come  in.  Ver'  velcome!  Happy  New 
Year!"  and  a  fat  mittened  hand  indicated  the  path 
to  the  open  door.  At  this  stood  Ri-Ri  and  Bobby 


TEA  FOR  THE  VILLAGE  225 

near  Crystal,  theirs  the  duty  of  piloting  the  guests 
upstairs  when  Crystal  had  greeted  them.  Upstairs 
Bedelia  and  Simonne  led  the  bonneted  portion  of 
the  company  into  the  two  rooms  reserved  for  them, 
while  Bobby  and  Ri-Ri,  hastily  pushing  the  sterner 
sex  into  the  other  rooms,  excitedly  dashed  down- 
stairs for  a  fresh  contingent.  Daphne  meanwhile 
superintended  the  little  maids.  As  Mrs.  Rumbold 
was  distinctly  over  twenty,  of  course  she  was  one 
of  the  honoured  guests,  and  could  not  help  about 
the  tea.  A  gigantic  responsibility,  so  it  seemed  to 
them,  therefore  devolved  upon  the  small  Ivy  and 
Ada. 

But  the  tables  were  all  laid  in  advance.  All  three 
of  the  downstairs  rooms  were  filled  with  little  tables. 
On  each  table  was  placed  a  big  cake,  a  dish  of  little 
cakes,  another  of  currant  buns,  enormous  plates  of 
jam  sandwiches,  unlimited  sugar,  (no  one  would 
ever  know  the  skirmishing  Crystal  and  all  her  house- 
hold had  done  to  acquire  enough  sugar),  a  moderate 
jug  of  milk,  and  later  and  above  all,  an  immense  pot 
of  strong  black  acrid  tea. 

There  had 'been  school  treats  and  mothers'  meet- 
ings before  this  at  the  Vicarage,  Christmas  Trees 
at  the  Big  House,  young  peoples'  gatherings  in  the 
little  Parish  Room  .  .  .  but  never  before  this  had 
there  been  a  real  "tea."  .  .  .  "Same  as  gentry  has," 
so  Mrs.  Rumbold  expressed  it.  And  "It  fair  give 
me  a  turn,"  said  frail  old  Elizabeth  Woodly,  "to 
walk  up  to  Pond  House  like  I  was  a  grand  visitor, 
and  her  there  all  in  w^hite,  shakin'  hands  so  natural 
with  me!" 


226      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

There  was  also,  as  Crystal  had  realised  in  throw- 
ing all  her  rooms  open  to  inspection,  a  natural 
curiosity  to  gratify.  Their  fathers,  and  their 
fathers'  fathers,  had  known  Pond  House  .  .  .  but 
these  American  strangers,  kind  and  friendly  as  they 
were  .  .  .  how  had  they  turned  the  old  place  about  ? 
There  were  rumours  of  the  old  kitchen's  being  now 
all  white,  with  blue  dishes,  mats  and  the  like  .  .  . 
and  it  was  said  that  the  proper  dining  room  had 
been  abandoned  to  the  children  as  a  playroom! 

But  now  it  was  all  lamp  and  candle  light;  gay 
little  tables  with  more  good  things  to  eat  than  could 
be  counted  .  .  .  the  white  figures  of  Crystal, 
Daphne,  Simonne  and  Bedelia  moving  from  table 
to  table.  .  .  .  "No  stintin'  in  this  house!"  said  Mrs. 
Rumbold  in  a  proud  whisper,  from  her  place  at  one 
of  the  little  tables,  where  she  was  rather  elegantly 
blowing  her  tea,  and  allowing  Miss  Daphne  to  urge 
more  currant  buns  upon  her. 

And  when  everybody  had  eaten  to  repletion  and 
leaned  back  with  heavy  sighs  of  satisfaction,  Bobby 
and  Chou-Chou  passed  trays  of  what  Bobby  ex- 
plained were  "sweeties,  vo  in  America  we  say 
candies  .  .  .  and  some  of  vese  has  came  from 
America!"  these  being  selected  solemnly,  and  only 
one  taken  till  much  urging  induced  the  guest  to  try 
several.  But  a  more  hilarious  moment  approached : 
Crystal  herself  passed  cigarettes,  and  to  the  ladies 
as  well  as  to  the  gentlemen!  No  one  had  ever 
seen  the  like.  Old  Ben  Garlick,  Mrs.  Rumbold's 
first  father-in-law,  so  to  speak,  she  being  twice  a 
widow,  was  so  bold  as  to  ask  his  hostess  "If  so  be 


TEA  FOR  THE  VILLAGE  227 

she'd  ever  tried  yon?"  and  when  Crystal  said  "No, 
I  don't  seem  to  care  for  smoking,"  it  was  felt  that 
no  lady  present  could  care  either.  But  when 
Crystal  followed  it  with  "Tho'  my  sister,  Lady 
Freke,  smokes  a  great  deal !"  it  was  recognised  that 
the  practice  was  sanctioned  in  the  highest  quarters. 
Her  ladyship  smoked!  and  Mrs.  Fitches  (to  be  sure 
she  was  from  Essex,  not  Oxfordshire  born)  prompt- 
ly accepted  a  cigarette,  and  even  lighted  it,  nervously 
encouraged  by  the  whole  room. 

It  was  then  suggested  (perhaps  to  keep  other 
ladies  from  this  recklessness)  that  Bert  Rust,  a  new 
comer,  the  Thame  Carrier  in  fact,  would  sing. 
And  amidst  much  applause,  with  everybody  crowd- 
ing in  from  the  other  rooms,  Mr.  Bert  Rust  sang 
at  great  length  that 

"You  was  a  bird  in  a  gilded  cage" 

and  after  many  bitter  reflections  as  to  what  he  was, 
ended  with  the  vocal  moral  that 

"Youth  must  never  not  mate  with  Age" 

and  began  all  over  again  amidst  the  sniffs  of  the 
much  affected  listeners. 

Some  scuffling  and  closing  of  doors  while  this 
went  on  turned  out  to  be  the  prelude  of  "A  drama 
superbe,  Madame!  arrange  by  Bidil  and  me,"  as  Ri- 
Ri  fluently  announced.  Chairs  were  quickly 
bumped  into  the  blue  and  white  kitchen,  whence  ail 
the  tables  had  been  removed,  and  the  audience 


228      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

hastily  packed  into  position  under  the  stern  di- 
rection of  Bedelia.  The  "drama  superbe"  then  took 
place  in  the  tiny  space  reserved  for  it.  A  railway 
train  was  represented  by  four  seats,  in  which 
travelled  Chou-Chou,  ponderous  little  citizen,  with 
a  gold  watch  and  a  large  hat,  accompanied  by  his 
wife,  a  very  glittery  lady,  heavily  veiled,  and  recog- 
nised as  Ri-Ri  only  by  the  stage  directions  in  mixed 
French  and  English  that  burst  from  the  veil  at  in- 
tervals. 

To  this  peaceful  travelling  party  enter  two  wild 
roaring  bandits  with  black  masks  ("our  second-best 
middy  ties  truly,  Mummie")  dashingly  wound  half 
over  the  round  faces  of  Bobby  and  Bedelia.  Tragic 
screams  from  the  veiled  lady,  forced  to  surrender 
her  jewels  .  .  .  deep  voiced  expostulations  from  her 
chubby  lord  upon  having  his  pockets  rifled  .  .  . 
bandits  about  to  withdraw  with  ill-gotten  wealth 
and  rude  glee,  when  the  veiled  lady  unexpectedly 
leaps  several  feet  into  the  air,  throws  off  her  wraps, 
and  threatens  the  bandits  in  what  seem  to  be  seven 
different  languages. 

Bandits  take  refuge  behind  the  unmoved  gentle- 
man victim,  whereupon  the  lady,  mounting  the  ad- 
vance chair  (originally  the  engine),  begins  hurling 
various  articles  of  apparel  in  all  directions,  to  the 
obvious  confusion  of  the  bandits,  the  embarrassment 
of  the  spectators  and  to  the  natural  nervousness  of 
Mrs.  McClinton,  (about  to  interfere  as  a  spangled 
petticoat,  apparently  the  last  covering,  is  hurled  by 
extremely  bare  pink  arms  so  far  across  the  room  that 
it  envelopes  the  blushing  Mo  Garlick),  but  who 


TEA  FOR  THE  VILLAGE  229 

pauses  just  in  time  .  .  .  for  the  reason  of  all  this 
is  suddenly  made  clear  ...  a  Transformation! 
The  alleged  wife  of  little  Mr.  Serious  Chou-Chou  is 
"Ri-Ri,  the  Strong  Man,"  who  exhibits  his  muscles 
to  an  admiring  audience — then  leaps  upon  the 
bandits,  whom  naturally  he  overpowers  with  one 
hand;  and  finally  mounting  theatrically  upon  the 
railway  train  makes  a  bow  in  the  finest  style,  and 
concludes  with : 

"Voila!  Ladies  and  gentlemens  ...  I  strong 
man,  much  kill  rrrrobbers.  You  like?  Good 
night!" 

And  great  applause. 

The  general  opinion  seemed  to  be  that  this  was 
the  event  of  a  life  time.  Cigarettes  and  candy  were 
again  passed.  It  was  now  well  after  nine.  For  a 
party  invited  from  five  to  seven,  this  was  doing  wrell. 
Crystal  looked  at  the  excited  faces  of  the  children. 
She  thought  of  poor  Ivy  and  Ada  who  would  have 
to  put  the  things  to  rights  .  .  .  and  as  the  Vicar 
just  then  looked  in,  she  asked  him  quietly  if  her 
guests  could  be  counted  on  soon  to  go? 

"No,  dear  lady,  they'll  be  here  all  night,  short  of 
a  bomb  or  'God  save  the  King' !" 

"Oh,  could  you  .  .  .  would  you  ...  is  it  very 
inhospitable?" 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  said  the  Vicar,  and  coming  into 
the  centre  of  the  room  he  called  for  a  cheer  for 
the  Pond  House,  then  for  Belgium,  then  for  Mrs. 
McClinton  .  .  .  and  while  the  enthusiasm  ran  high, 
said  in  his  best  pulpit  manner,  "Now,  my  friends, 
before  we  go  home  after  this  very  agreeable  eve- 


230      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

ning,  let  us  end  with  'God  save  the  King !' ' 

And  the  poor  guests  found  themselves,  when  they 
had  all  stood,  and  finished  one  stanza  of  their  Na- 
tional Anthem,  being  mysteriously  propelled  toward 
the  stairs,  and  up  ...  their  hats  and  coats  being 
found  by  Daphne  and  Bedelia ;  and  down  again,  say- 
ing "Good  Night"  to  the  hostess  .  .  .  the  general 
feeling  summed  up  by  old  Twiggs,  who  said,  "A 
fine  evenin',  m'm,  only  summat's  wrong — it  be  too 
soon  over!" 

And  then  the  cold  outside  air,  and  little  groups 
making  their  way  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

RE-ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK 

HORACE  DIMOCK'S  return  to  England  in  January 
had  little  in  common  with  his  June  arrival  of  the 
year  before  .  .  .  cold,  raw,  forbidding  was  the  ap- 
proach to  the  English  shores.  "Katty  would  say 
'twas  a  judgment  on  me,"  thought  Horace  ruefully, 
"if  she  knew.  Lord!  what  wouldn't  Katty  say  if 
she  knew  all  there  was  to  know !" 

He  had  come  on  deck  to  see  if  some  glimpse  of 
land  could  be  discerned.  But  it  was  a  black  mid- 
night, a  dreary  rain  falling,  and  they  ran  into  a 
cold  wind.  And  a  vessel  ahead  of  them  had  re- 
ported a  floating  mine. 

Horace  didn't  mind  danger,  but  he  loathed  dis- 
comfort. On  the  other  hand,  he  had  been  much 
struck  by  the  courage  of  the  women  passengers  in 
a  recent  storm.  Not  a  woman  had  apparently  turned 
a  hair.  Horace's  neighbour  at  table,  a  pretty  crea- 
ture rather  like  the  Patty  Oliver  of  his  Paris  days, 
had  indeed  turned  the  colour  of  milk,  lifting  big, 
frightened  eyes  to  him,  but  she  had  not  made  a 
sound.  He  wondered  if  Daphne  would  show  as  en- 
chanting an  alarm  under  similar  conditions.  Hor- 
ace never  claimed  to  find  a  woman  less  attractive 
who  was  timourous  and  gently  clinging. 

231 


232      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

He  left  the  bleak  deck  and  made  his  way  below 
to  the  warmth  of  the  smoking  saloon.  The  men 
playing  cards  or  talking  there  turned  friendly  eyes 
on  him.  Horace  was  ever  popular.  He  chose  a 
big  chair  in  a  corner,  however,  where,  under  pre- 
tence of  reading,  he  could  give  himself  up  to  re- 
flection. His  time  aboard  had  been  too  devoted  to 
the  little  girl  who  looked  like  Patty  Oliver  to  leave 
him  much  leisure  for  meditation.  And  there  was 
much  to  meditate  upon. 

His  present  journey,  like  the  last,  had  been  hastily 
arranged.  Bovo  had  taken  him  back  to  Buenos 
Aires  the  previous  August,  and  Bovo  was  now 
hurrying  his  return  to  London  this  January.  He 
had  colossal  contracts  with  the  governments  of 
France  and  England — "another  American  fortune," 
as  Aileen  had  scornfully  said. 

He  had  not  yet  decided  whether  or  not  to  reveal 
his  presence  in  England  to  his  friends.  He  had  had 
no  news  from  there  in  all  these  months.  Long  ago, 
after  all  communication  between  him  and  Pond 
House  had  ceased,  he  had  come  to  realise  acutely 
what  a  loss  Crystal's  weekly  letters  were,  and  had 
sent  her  a  note  he  now  saw  to  have  been  weak :  "Are 
you  never  going  to  write  to  me  again?"  he  had 
asked.  And  he  had,  at  the  same  time,  quite  casually, 
he  thought,  reminded  her  of  a  chronometer  he  had 
expected  to  be  delivered  at  Pond  House  shortly  be- 
fore he  left. 

Crystal  had  answered:  "No.  You  have  done 
me  as  great  a  wrong  as  one  human  being  ever  did 


RE-ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  233 

another,  and  yet  you  can  be  shrill  about  a  three 
guinea  chronometer." 

Katty  of  course  never  wrote  letters,  and  neither 
Meredith  Dyfed  nor  Peter  Norton  had  answered 
his  to  them.  So  he  was  absolutely  in  the  dark 
about  everything.  Had  Crystal  gone  back  to  New 
York?  Had  Katty's  husband  and  boys  arrived  in 
England?  Was  Peter  Norton  in  favour  of  this 
bewildering  League  of  Nations?  Was  he  backing 
Italy  or  Jugo  Slavia?  After  the  scene  in  Peter's 
house  where  they  had  all  drunk  solemnly  to  Ser- 
bia, "the  bravest  country  in  the  world,"  could  it  be 
that  Peter  had  not  thrown  his  weight  against  D'An- 
nunzio's  theatrical  attempts? 

Where  was  that  handsome  young  Montenegrin, 
Dakovich?  Killed,  very  likely.  Yet  with  what 
vividness  Horace  recalled  the  foreign  beauty  of  the 
boy  as  he  came  towards  him  through  that  golden 
June  evening  in  the  Nortons'  garden!  And,  as 
once  or  twice  before,  he  seemed  to  see,  with  acute 
displeasure,  Daphne's  beautiful  head  by  Stefan's 
even  more  beautiful  one.  He  closed  his  eyes,  to 
shut  out  the  young  Montenegrin  and  to  focus  on 
Daphne,  as  she  had  appeared  to  him  in  those  two 
incredible  visions  at  the  convent.  Visions  that  had 
dominated  his  life  and  thought  as  nothing  else  had 
done  in  his  whole  experience. 

Had  she  taken  the  veil  ?  Alas,  it  was  practically 
certain  that  she  had.  Should  he  ...  could 
he  ...  go  at  once  to  the  convent?  And  if  she  had 
taken  the  veil,  even  the  white  one,  what  could  he 
do  ?  Yet  Horace  knew  he  would  do  something  .  .  . 


234      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

and  quickly,  unreflectively  .  .  .  before  Crystal 
could  intervene. 

Always  Crystal. 

Was  there  danger  that  Crystal  would  ere  this 
have  warned  Daphne?  Told  her  anything  of  him, 
or  their  relation?  No.  Crystal  could  be  counted  on 
never  to  tell.  Even  Katty  would  never  know.  And 
as  she  was  discreet,  so  also  was  she  generous. 
Should  he  tell  her  now  that  it  was  Daphne?  He 
was  sure  she  did  not  know  .  .  .  yet  she  had  shown 
an  extraordinary  curiosity  as  to  her  successor  in 
his  heart.  .  .  .  He  had  been  right  in  keeping  that 
knowledge  from  her,  he  said  to  himself  ...  he 
had  done  it  to  protect  Daphne.  But  now  he  said 
with  equal  nobility  that  he  must  let  Crystal  know 
...  let  her  generosity  have  play.  .  .  .  No  one 
could  influence  Daphne  as  Crystal  could,  Katty  had 
said.  Would  she  not,  now  that  the  first  acerbity 
had  gone,  feel  it  a  great  opportunity  to  show  her 
devotion  to  him,  Horace?  If  she  would  release  him, 
and  at  the  same  time  persuade  Daphne  to  leave 
the  convent!  ...  it  would  be  as  heroic  a  form  of 
altruism  as  could  be  conceived.  Horace  quite  glowed 
to  think  of  it. 

Of  course  there  were  serious  practical  difficulties 
in  the  way  .  .  .  but  Horace  reflected  that  to  an 
American  nothing  was  insuperable  .  .  .  and  he 
smiled  down  his  cigar  ...  to  an  American  in  love, 
absolutely  nothing.  He  could  hear  Lady  Freke  .  .  . 
if  she  knew!  saying  viciously,  "Of  course,  if  you 
don't  draw  the  line  at  setting  fire  to  the  convent  or 


RE-ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  235 

feeding  Crystal  ground  glass!"  What  a  heaven- 
sent blessing  that  Lady  Freke  didn't  know! 

All  the  same  he  found  himself  telephoning  to 
Cadogan  Square  next  morning  the  moment  he  had 
closed  the  door  of  his  comfortable  rooms  in  the 
usual  hotel. 

"Mr.  Dimock,  sir?"  came  Grimmer's  mellow 
voice.  "This  will  be  an  unexpected  pleasure  to  her 
ladyship.  No,  sir,  her  ladyship  is  generally  at  her 
Hostel  at  this  hour,  for  the  Flemings,  you  know, 
sir.  Luncheon?  Unfortunately  her  ladyship  has 
not  lunched,  so  to  speak,  for  six  months.  Did  you 
have  a  pleasant  journey,  sir?  No?  Most  unfor- 
tunate. Thank  you,  sir." 

In  a  brief  time  Horace's  taxi  drew  up  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  Hostel,  a  large,  shabby,  one  storied 
place,  well  toward  the  city.  A  group  of  strangers 
stood  near  talking  French.  It  was  curious  to  hear 
so  much  French  in  the  London  streets.  A  huge  con- 
stable, rather  like  Grimmer,  was  on  guard  at  the 
door,  smiling  benevolently,  very  like  Grimmer,  on 
the  crowd  about  him. 

He  directed  Horace  to  Lady  Freke's  desk,  al- 
though her  ladyship  had  gone  out,  he  said.  But  the 
young  lady  was  there,  always.  "She  keeps  longer 
hours  than  what  I  do !"  said  the  big  policeman,  hold- 
ing open  the  door. 

And  Horace,  looking  across  the  big  room  toward 
the  desk  indicated,  stopped  short  .  .  .  suddenly 
translated  from  every  day  into  a  dream.  Who  stood 
at  that  desk? 

He  moved   a   step  nearer   to  make   sure,   and 


236      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

stopped  again,  hesitating  to  believe  that  his  eyes 
actually  saw  that  slim  black  figure,  with  the  white 
at  wrists  and  neck,  the  face  luminous  even  from 
this  distance,  the  black  braids  around  the  fine  head. 

Daphne!  Daphne  there!  .  .  .  Daphne  in  the 
world ! 

He  walked  what  seemed  an  interminable  distance 
and  paused  at  the  desk  before  Daphne  finished  with 
the  pair  to  whom  she  was  talking,  peasants  evi- 
dently, who  said  "Dank  u!"  repeatedly,  and  finally 
moved  contentedly  away.  She  turned  then,  expect- 
ing another  "case,"  to  find  herself  looking  into  Hor- 
ace's shining  eyes. 

"My  dearest  child!"  he  said. 

Daphne,  for  all  her  self-possession,  did  not  know 
enough  of  the  world  to  realise  how  admirable,  un- 
der difficult  circumstances,  Horace's  manner  was. 
But  she  felt  herself  encompassed  by  a  flattering  cor- 
diality with  the  warm  personal  note  no  woman, 
even  a  would-be  nun,  but  must  respond  to,  espe- 
cially when  it  emanates  from  anything  so  handsome 
and  confident  as  the  presence  now  before  her. 

Moreover,  the  Hostel  was  not  the  convent.  What 
seemed  shocking  in  the  one  was  but  part  of  the 
emotional  atmosphere  of  the  other.  Daphne  had 
perforce  put  her  hand  into  Horace's  outstretched 
one.  She  felt  it  held  there,  and,  looking  up  shyly 
into  his  kind  and  glowing  face,  she  blushed  and 
smiled,  not  knowing  why,  looked  down,  and  finally 
withdrew  her  hand. 

"When  did  you  come?  Katty  will  be  sorry  to 
miss  you "  she  heard  herself  saying  nervously: 


RE-ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  237 

"She  has  just  gone  out  of  town.  Hazleby  wasn't 
well.  I  am  so  proud  to  be  trusted  with  all  her  work 
here." 

Horace  hardly  dared  speak.  "I've  just  landed," 
he  said.  "I  should  have  gone  out  to  the  convent 
if  I  hadn't  found  you  here.  And  if  I  hadn't  found 
you  there,  Daphne,  I  should  have  searched  all  Eng- 
land for  you." 

Daphne  was  saved  the  embarrassment  of  reply- 
ing by  a  tall  Fleming,  apparently  a  labourer,  whom 
she  greeted  now  with  pleasure. 

"Excuse  me,  Uncle  Horace,"  she  murmured,  "this 
man  has  news  for  me."  And  as  she  explained 
when  he  had  gone,  "It  was  a  man  who  goes  to 
Holland  for  us.  He  had  come  to  advise  me  about 
a  young  girl  who  is  wild  to  go  back  to  Alost." 

Horace  was  obviously  not  listening.  The  joy 
of  looking  at  her  was  enough,  and  Daphne  rather 
disconnectedly  continued,  conscious  of  something 
that  both  charmed  and  repelled  her: 

"  'Tis  easy  enough  now  to  go.  But  not  so  long 
ago  it  was  death  to  make  that  journey." 

"It'll  be  death  to  me,  Daphne,  if  you  don't  ex- 
plain matters.  Are  you  out  for  good?  When  did 
you  leave  the  convent?  What  decided  you  at  the 
last?" 

Daphne  felt  herself  flush  again  under  those  im- 
passioned eyes. 

"Yes  ...  I  don't  know  ...  I  am  useful  here, 
for  a  while  any  way.  I  left  last  November.  It  was 
Crystal  who  made  me  see  my  way  at  the  last." 


238      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Horace  bit  his  lip.  "Where  is  Crystal?"  he  asked 
finally. 

"She's  here  three  days  a  week  .  .  .  Wednesday, 
Thursday  and  Friday.  The  rest  of  the  time  she's 
down  at  Pond  House." 

So  there  would  be  these  two  days,  Horace  thought, 
while  she  went  on. 

"I  stay  at  Katty's  the  first  half  of  the  week,  and 
at  Crystal's  the  last." 

"Will  you  go  out  to  lunch  with  me?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no.  We  never  leave  this  desk  unless  some- 
one's on  duty  here." 

"Don't  you  eat?"  Horace  smiled,  remembering 
Grimmer's  "her  ladyship  hasn't  lunched,  so  to  speak, 
for  six  months." 

"Yes,  at  three.  When  I  am  alone  here,  one  of 
the  interpreters  takes  my  place  for  twenty  minutes, 
and  I  dash  out  then.  That's  what  Katty  and  Crys- 
tal do,  too." 

"May  I  stay  here  and  watch  the  working  of  the 
machine?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  yes,"  responded  the  girl,  cheerfully,  "only 
I'm  likely  to  make  you  useful,  Uncle  Horace." 

"No  'uncle,'  mademoiselle,  plain  Horace.  And 
now  how  can  I  be  useful?" 

The  would-be  nun  was  a  capable  young  woman. 
She  might  blush  under  the  unaccustomed  fervour 
of  manly  eyes,  but  she  put  their  owner  to  work  im- 
mediately. To  Horace,  used  to  the  all-observant 
and  unnoticed  care  Crystal  had  always  bestowed 
upon  him,  and  to  the  devoted  attention  of  his  Buenos 
Aires  household,  it  was  a  new  sensation  to  be  as 


RE-ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  239 

strenuously  employed  as  if  he  were  a  messenger 
boy.  He  found  himself  rushing  to  the  telegraph 
office,  to  the  bank,  to  a  shoe  shop  with  a  nervous 
little  Baron  de  Verbrugghe,  to  the  station  with  two 
Antwerp  waitresses,  talking  French  to  "cases" 
Daphne  had  no  time  for.  By  three  he  looked  so 
exhausted  that  Daphne,  of  her  own  accord,  sug- 
gested his  getting  a  comfortable  meal  at  once. 
When  he  declined  to  leave  her,  she  agreed  to  secure 
a  substitute  for  an  hour,  so  that  she  could  go  with 
him. 

As  they  left,  Horace  looked  about  for  some  means 
of  making  a  donation,  found  a  box  for  pennies,  and 
put  in  a  "green  back,"  which  Daphne  saw  just  in 
time  to  make  out  the  denomination. 

"A  hundred  dollars,  Horace!"  Daphne  beamed 
at  him.  "How  good  of  you!  And  you  can  see 
for  yourself  how  useful  it  will  be." 

But  as  they  seated  themselves  in  a  quiet  corner 
of  the  big  grill  room  overlooking  the  river,  Horace 
said, 

"Aren't  there  constant  small  calls  on  your  own 
purse,  Daphne?" 

"O  yes,  but  Crystal  insists  on  making  me  an  al- 
lowance for  my  work  here." 

This  almost  spoiled  Horace's  own  plan ;  but  when 
the  waiter  had  taken  their  order,  he  pulled  out  his 
cheque  book  again,  and  wrote  carefully.  "We  must 
do  our  business  in  a  business-like  manner,"  he 
smiled  across  the  little  table  at  Daphne.  And  when 
he  handed  her  the  cheque,  she  found  that  it  was 


240       WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

payable  to  "Miss  Daphne  O'Brien,  ac'ct  Flemish 
Relief  Fund,"  and  was  for  five  hundred  pounds. 

"You  must  open  a  separate  account  with  this," 
he  said,  thinking  five  hundred  cheap  for  the  lovely 
colour  and  the  swimming  eyes  before  him.  "And 
you  can  count  on  the  same  amount  every  three 
months." 

"But  it's  a  fortune,  Horace.  What  you  put  into 
our  box  was  splendid  enough,  but  all  this  .  .  .  why, 
it's  nearly  two  thousand  five  hundred  dollars!" 
(Horace  didn't  tell  her  it  was  a  bare  $1700.)  "All 
this  for  my  own  special  cases!  Oh,  if  you  realised 
what  happiness  and  comfort  it  will  give  to  such 
dear,  dear  people!" 

Her  voice  broke.  And  if  the  waiter  had  not 
at  that  moment  placed  the  tureen  of  welcome  sou^ 
before  them,  s>he  would,  she  felt  sure,  have  burst 
into  tears. 

Horace  Dimock  had  played  with  the  word  "psy- 
chology" long  before  the  war  brought  it  to  the 
man  in  the  street.  But  it  was  the  psychology  of 
woman  that  he  was  most  inclined  to  study;  particu- 
larly that  science  of  the  feminine  soul  in  its  relation 
to  the  masculine,  even  more  particularly  in  its  rela- 
tion to  Mr.  Horace  Dimock's  soul. 

When  Crystal  had,  so  unexpectedly  to  herself, 
fallen  in  love  with  him  in  those  Wicklow  days,  psy- 
chology had  taught  him  that  it  was  the  exact  mo- 
ment for  it  ...  a  widow  of  thirty-six,  knowing 
only  the  elderly  affection  of  a  Scotch  Presbyterian, 
in  a  setting  of  early  lore  and  rebel  tradition  like 


RE-ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  241 

Glenmalure.  With  Leonora,  Patty  and  even  Alpha, 
not  to  recall  the  briefer  loves  of  his  varied  career, 
he  had  always  known  the  psychological  moment 
,  .  .  and  at  twenty-one,  thirty-one,  forty-one,  had 
always  seized  it. 

And  now  he  read  Daphne  to  his  own  satisfac- 
tion .  .  .  her  natural  reaction  from  the  austerities 
of  the  convent,  the  poignant  human  drama  about 
her  here,  making  human  love  the  only  abiding  fac- 
tor on  a  stage  of  suffering  and  privation  .  .  .  her 
age  .  .  .  for  he  had  observed  that  twenty-three  was 
ihe  responsive  time  with  young  creatures  .  .  .  and 
the  novelty,  and  what  he  intended  should  be  the 
magnificence  ...  of  his  wooing. 

Fortune  played  into  his  hands.  That  first  eve- 
ning, Daphne  was  kept  till  nine  o'clock  at  her  desk. 
It  was  not  hard  to  persuade  her,  tired  and  hungry 
as  she  was,  to  go  to  dinner  with  him.  When  they 
reached  Cadogan  Square  at  eleven  who  could  have 
handed  her  over  with  more  fatherly  care  to  Grim- 
mer than  Horace?  And  hardly  had  his  taxi  de- 
parted than  she  found  awaiting  her  a  great  basket  of 
violets  and  roses  so  expensively  abundant  as  lit- 
erally to  fill  the  house  with  their  fragrance. 

Next  morning  her  desk  too  was  like  a  garden, 
and  hidden  amongst  the  flowers  some  hot  house 
peaches  .  .  .  Daphne  knew  them  to  be  two  shillings 
apiece  .  .  .  with  a  little  note  saying  he  would  call 
for  her  at  three. 

Meanwhile  a  telegram  came  from  Katty  to  say 
that  Hazleby  was  really  ill  ...  ptomaine  poison- 


242      'WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

ing  .  .  .  and  that  she  would  not  leave  him  for  sev- 
eral days. 

So  Horace  found  it  easy  to  persuade  Daphne  not 
only  to  lunch  with  him  at  three,  but  to  dine  at 
seven,  and  later  to  see  a  show.  And  as  they  drove 
home  after  what  to  Daphne  was  a  really  thrilling 
evening,  Horace  asked  her  gravely  if  she  would  do 
something  for  him?  Who  would  not  wish  to  do 
anything  she  could  for  so  kind  a  guardian?  The 
request  was  singular,  but  Daphne  agreed  at  once 
...  it  was  to  postpone  letting  Crystal  know  that 
he  had  arrived  .  .  ,  for  Crystal  was  due  next  morn- 
ing at  the  Hostel. 

The  next  morning  more  flowers  on  her  desk,  and 
a  tiny  package  ...  in  it  one  of  the  new  American 
wrist  watches,  no  bigger  apparently  than  could  be 
covered  by  a  sixpenny  bit,  with  "To  D.  from  H.  D." 
on  its  golden  back.  And  a  note  asking  her  to  ring 
him  up  at  his  club  by  two. 

It  was  a  quiet  morning,  and  when  she  had  ar- 
ranged her  flowers  and  fastened  the  dainty  wrist 
strap  around  her  firm  white  wrist,  Daphne  stood, 
uninterrupted  for  nearly  ten  minutes,  her  face 
buried  in  a  bunch  of  the  violets,  thinking  of  their 
giver,  whose  generosity  was  royal,  and  whose  man- 
ner was  so  kind. 

So  absorbed  was  she  that  she  did  not  see  Crystal's 
tall  white  figure  coming  toward  her,  turning  only 
when  a  little  peasant  woman  beside  her  exclaimed : 
"Goed !  Het  witte  Dame !"  but  the  radiance  of  her 
glance  faded  when  she  realised  how  pale  and  drawn 
Crystal  looked. 


RE-ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  243 

"What  is  it,  Crystal,  dear?  Has  something  hap- 
pened?" 

For  answer  Crystal  held  out  a  telegram.; 

"Blundell  dead.  Heat  stroke,  Basra.  Can  you  come 
here  few  days  ?  Hazleby  still  ill.  Going  away  by  my- 
self. Katty." 

"Oh,  poor,  poor  Katty!"  burst  out  Daphne. 
"And  poor  Sir  Blundell!  You're  going  down  to 
Hazleby  at  once,  Crystal?" 

Crystal  nodded,  still  unable  to  speak. 

"And  I'll  stay  on  duty  here  till  Saturday," 
Daphne  continued,  "and  then  go  down  to  the  Pond 
House  to  be  with  the  kiddies  over  Sunday." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  please,"  answered  her  friend. 
"Miss  Tuckett  will  stay  till  you  come.  I  shall  of 
course  not  leave  Hazleby  till  he  is  quite  himself." 

"Where  do  you  think  Katty  will  go?" 

"She'll  hardly  tell  us.  But  I  imagine  to  Ireland. 
She  met  Blundell  there,  in  the  Wicklow  Glens." 

"Poor  little  Katty,  alone  with  such  memories!" 
grieved  Daphne. 

"And  not  knowing  how  Blundell  died,"  Crystal 
went  on,  "wondering  if  he  realised  it,  if  he  needed 
her."  Crystal  walked  away  a  moment.  Paler  than 
ever  when  she  came  back,  she  said:  "It's  the  be- 
ginning only.  Our  first  offering  as  a  family  on  the 
altar  of  this  war,  and  the  bitterness  of  it — the  war 
so  long  over!" 

"What  delicious  violets!"  she  said  a  moment 
afterwards,  and  Daphne  chose  the  finest  bunch  and 
slipped  it  into  Crystal's  belt. 


244      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"I  know  you've  a  special  feeling  about  violets," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  child,  I  couldn't  take  or  wear  violets  except 
from  someone  I  loved,"  Crystal  answered.  "Ab- 
surd, isn't  it  ?  but  to  me  violets  are  the  dearest  things 
in  the  world,  after  children.  I  shall  send  some  by 
the  last  post  tonight  to  Glenmalure,  on  the  chance 
of  their  reaching  Katty." 

Daphne  went  to  the  big  door  to  put  her  friend 
into  a  taxi.  It  was  nice  to  see  her  wearing  Hor- 
ace's violets,  she  thought  to  herself,  as  she  turned 
back.  "The  two  people  I  suppose  I  love  best  in 
the  world !  I  wish  I  might  have  told  Crystal  Horace 
was  here." 

Later  when  she  telephoned  him  as  he  had  asked, 
at  two,  she  found  that  he  had  already  heard  the 
sad  news,  which  had  been  posted  in  the  club  .  .  . 
Blundell's  club  as  well  as  Horace's.  And  Peter 
Norton's  paper,  of  which  the  early  edition  was  now 
on  the  street,  devoted  nearly  half  a  column  to  "A 
Very  Gallant  Gentleman,  Sir  Blundell  Freke,  who 
had  given  his  services,  much  of  his  fortune — and 
now  his  life,  in  Mesopotamia." 

And  Horace  and  Daphne,  dining  at  a  quiet  little 
restaurant  in  Soho,  talked  of  Blundell  and  Katty. 
Horace  could  tell  his  companion  of  those  Wicklow 
days  when  the  kindly  big  Englishman  so  completely 
lost  his  heart  to  the  gay  little  widow.  "He  was 
four  years  older  than  I  am  now,  Daphne,"  Horace 
paused  to  bring  it  home  to  her.  And  Daphne,  who 
had  always  considered  Sir  Blundell  a  very  old  gen- 
tleman, reconsidered  ...  in  four  years  Horace 


RE-ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  245 

would  not  be  an  old  gentleman.  Could  anyone  im- 
agine her  wonderful  guardian  as  ever  anything  but 
handsome,  brilliant  and,  yes,  young? 

That  was  Wednesday.  Thursday,  Friday  and 
most  of  Saturday  still  remained  to  him,  and 
Horace,  psychologist  and  old  campaigner,  carried 
through  masterly  manoeuvres  on  all  three  days. 

It  had  been  a  cold  month,  but  that  Friday  eve- 
ning was  mild  and  moonlit.  They  had  dined  in 
Chelsea,  and  afterwards  walked  on  the  Embank- 
ment, talking.  Horace  put  Daphne's  hand  into  his 
arm  as  they  started,  and  held  it  there,  even  when 
they  paused  to  lean  against  the  parapet,  looking 
down  at  the  silvered  river. 

"I  hope  it  has  been  a  happy  week  ...  in  spite 
of  the  bad  news,"  he  said  finally.  And  when 
Daphne  answered:  "Oh,  it  has,  it  has!"  he  carried 
her  hand  to  his  lips.  She  tried  to  draw  it  away, 
but  not  violently;  so  he  kissed  the  wrist,  slipping 
down  her  loose  glove  to  do  so. 

"Little  girl,"  he  said  gently,  "will  you  trust  me, 
perhaps  for  a  long  time?  You  know  I  love  you. 
You'.ve  known  it  from  the  beginning.  But  there 
are  certain  claims  on  me  that  I  must  first  clear 
away.  I  cannot  tell  even  you  what  they  are  .  .  . 
for  they  are  not,  properly  speaking,  my  concern," 
and  he  looked  very  noble  and  handsome  in  the  moon- 
light, taking  off  his  hat  as  he  spoke  to  her,  but 
holding  her  fast  with  the  other  hand. 

"I  don't  know  ...  I  don't  know  myself,  I'm 
afraid,"  Daphne  answered.  "I  love  your  loving 


246      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

me.  I  was  never  so  proud  in  my  life  .  *  .-  but 
that  isn't  really  loving  you,  you  see." 

"I  see  enough,  darling  child.  I  ask  you  now  only 
to  trust  me,  and  to  keep  my  secret  for  the  present." 

"May  I  not  talk  it  over  with  Crystal?"  asked 
Daphne.  "She'd  understand  so  well  how  I  feel!" 
And  fearing  from  Horace's  silence  that  he  thought 
she  was  comparing  him  to  the  late  Mr.  McClinton 
and  herself  to  Crystal,  she  hastily  added:  "Of 
course  I  won't,  if  you  don't  wish  me  to." 

"Better  not,  dearest  child,"  said  Horace  in  his 
handsomest  manner.  "I  must  give  you  time  to 
make  certain  whether  you  can  love  me  .  .  .  till  then 
I'm  at  your  mercy  ...  I  don't  wish  anyone  to 
know.  Beside,  just  now,  darling,  with  this  new 
sorrow  in  the  family  .  .  ." 

Daphne  felt  herself  rebuked.  Oh,  so  gently!  and 
as  they  walked  up  Sloane  Street  together  she  found 
herself  very  tender  and  grateful  for  this  wonderful 
affection  she  was  offered. 

"Even  supposing  I  don't  love  him  in  the  way  I 
thought  one  ought  to,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I've 
made  a  failure  of  my  convent  life.  Shouldn't  I  try 
to  do  something  else,  something  that  somebody 
wants  me  to  as  much  as  Horace  seems  to  want 
this?"  Of  course  Merton  wanted  her  too,  but  a 
cousin  was  out  of  the  question. 

Horace  was  wise  enough  to  leave  her  at  Cadogan 
Square  with  only  a  pressure  of  the  hand  as  he  said 
good  night.  She  went  up  stairs  quickly,  and  he 
stayed  a  moment  to  talk  with  Grimmer. 


RE-ENTER  MR.  DIMOCK  247 

"No,  her  ladyship  was  not  coming  home  yet 
awhile.  She  had  telegraphed  him  to  see  to  every- 
thing. Yes,  she  was  in  Ireland"  .  .  .  Grimmer 
understood  that  there  were  associations.  .  .  .  "That 
would  explain  it,  sir.  Yes,  it  was  a  very  serious 
loss,  very  serious,  sir.  If  he  had  lived,  he  Grim- 
mer, often  thought  Sir  Blundell  would  one  day  be 
Prime  Minister,  an  upholder  of  the  British  Con- 
stitution, sir.  And  more  a  friend  in  the  house 
than  a  master."  Grimmer  finished  with  a  little  choke. 

Horace,  really  touched,  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  Grimmer  said  "Thank  you,  sir,"  standing 
large  and  mournful,  and  always  the  ideal  servant, 
in  the  open  doorway  as  Horace  left.  The  latter 
envied  Katty  a  little  as  he  came  away,  wondering 
if,  when  his  present  difficulties  were  past,  and  he 
had  established  Daphne  in  the  fitting  comfort  of 
a  London  house,  he  would  happen  on  anyone  so 
perfectly  adapted  to  his  service  as  Grimmer? 

Next  morning  on  Daphne's  desk  was  a  great  box 
of  creamy  roses,  like  a  bride's,  Daphne  thought, 
blushing  .  .  .  and  a  little  box,  from  a  Bond  Street 
jeweller — Daphne  had  never  cared  for  jewels,  but 
even  to  her  ignorant  eyes  the  little  string  of  pearls 
she  found  inside  seemed  very  splendid.  She  did 
not  see  Horace  himself — till  he  called  to  take  her 
to  Paddington  Station.  He  had  had  important  let- 
ters to  write,  he  explained.  He  did  not  explain 
that  the  letters  were  one,  and  that  one  to  Crystal. 
He  knew  that  the  hostess  of  Pond  House  was  to 
return  by  Monday,  and  as  Daphne  would  be  leav- 


248      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

ing  earlier  that  day  to  come  up  to  town,  he  counted 
on  his  letter  to  Crystal  as  arriving  after  Daphne's 
departure,  and  as  thus  giving  Crystal  time  to  re- 
flect upon  it  alone. 


CHAPTER  XX 

DAPHNE  AND  CRYSTAL 

WHAT  he  had  not  counted  on  was  Bedelia's  de- 
veloping pneumonia.  There  had  been  rumours  of 
an  escaped  German  prisoner,  who  dashed  about  the 
Oxfordshire  roads  on  a  motorcycle,  of  which  the 
number  had  been  altered!  and  the  Pond  House 
children  (for  the  little  Belgians  were  still  there) 
were  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement.  Bobby  and  Mr. 
Honey  had  planned  to  take  the  villain  red  handed, 
so  that  it  behooved  Bedelia  and  Ri-Ri  to  be  up  and 
doing.  A  midnight  excursion  in  a  pouring  rain,  a 
return  unknown  to  Miss  Tuckett  in  icy  wet  gar- 
ments, and  an  hour's  hanging  about  in  draughts, 
had  done  for  Miss  McClinton. 

Crystal,  rushing  home  in  response  to  Daphne's 
frightened  telegram,  found  her  small  daughter  dan- 
gerously ill.  For  three  days  neither  she  nor  Daphne 
dared  to  hope.  There  was  only  one  doctor  in  many 
miles  .  .  .  and  no  nurse  to  be  had  for  love  or 
money.  Crystal  let  Daphne  relieve  her  when  her 
anxiety  permitted,  or  when  she  was  literally  ex- 
hausted, and  neither  thought  to  ask  for,  or  look  at, 
letters. 

On  the  fourth  day,  the  doctor  gave  them  the  first 
encouragement,  and  Daphne,  remembering  with  a 

249 


250      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

'pang  that  Horace  was  probably  deeply  anxious  at 
her  failure  to  reappear  in  London,  said  to  Crystal 
that  she  must  send  a  telegram,  and  would  walk  in 
to  the  market  town  to  do  so. 

Crystal  looked  at  her  curiously.  It  would  have 
'seemed  natural  for  Daphne  to  say  to  whom  she 
must  telegraph.  Then  that  string  of  valuable  pearls 
,  .  .  left  carelessly  on  the  girl's  dressing  table  .  .  . 
but  she  said  quietly : 

"Let's  look  at  the  mail  before  you  go."  And 
Daphne  brought  up  a  quantity  of  letters,  papers  and 
a  telegram.  The  child  was  asleep,  and  Crystal  and 
JDaphne  sat  in  the  next  room  where  they  could  talk 
without  disturbing  her. 

Almost  the  first  envelope  Crystal  examined  was 
'Horace's.  A  deep  flush  covered  her  face.  Daphne 
'saw  the  handwriting  at  the  same  moment,  and 
flushed  too.  She  opened  the  telegram  to  hide  her 
confusion:  "For  God's  sake,  telegraph  me  what's 
wrong.  Horace,"  it  said  .  .  .  and  as  she  read  it, 
she  saw  Crystal's  hand  clutch  at  her  heart,  and 
heard  a  sort  of  convulsive  sigh  that  made  her  jump 
just  in  time  to  catch  her  friend  as  she  fell  forward. 
Daphne  had  never  seen  anyone  faint  before,  but 
she  had  read  that  you  must  let  a  fainting  person 
lie  flat,  the  head  on  a  level  with  the  body.  She 
managed  this  with  some  difficulty,  and  knelt  by  Crys- 
tal in  terror,  fearing,  her  pallor  was  so  alarming, 
her  lips  so  bloodless,  that  she  was  dead.  Common 
sense  told  her  to  loosen  the  neck  and  belt  of  Crys- 
tal's white  morning  gown,  and  in  a  few  moments 
her  friend  gave  a  little  sigh  and  opened  her  eyes. 


DAPHNE  AND  CRYSTAL  251 

In  her  hand  she  still  held  the  letter,  and  it  seemed 
to  Daphne  she  wished  to  give  it  to  her. 

But  Daphne  hesitated  to  take  it.  Kneeling  by 
this  friend  whom  she  so  loved,  seeing  her  helpless, 
ghastly,  herself  shaken  and  weak  after  the  three 
days  of  anxiety  for  the  sick  child,  she  felt  unac- 
countably afraid  of  Horace's  letter. 

"Crystal,  Crystal,"  she  implored,  always  in  a 
low  voice  lest  Bedelia  awake,  "say  you  feel  better. 
Nothing  matters,  Crystal,  darling,  except  that  we 
all  love  you  and  need  you.  What,  what  made  you 
faint,  dearest?" 

Crystal  looked  at  her  with  hunted  eyes.  "You, 
Daphne !  it  was  you !  .  .  .  little  Daphne !" 

"Not  I  that  made  you  faint,  Crystal  dearest?" 

"No  .  .  .  Horace  .  .  .  Horace's "  she  tried 

for  a  word  .  .  .  "perfidy.  Horace's  perfidy." 

Daphne's  heart  grew  cold.  "Horace's  perfidy?" 
she  repeated.  "Tell  me,  Crystal.  I  have  a  right 
to  know." 

"Yes,  you  have  a  right  to  know."  Crystal  strug- 
gled to  sit  up  ...  and  Daphne  very  tenderly 
helped  her,  pulling  down  the  pillows  from  the  bed 
close  by,  to  pack  around  her. 

Crystal  looked  at  her  as  though  from  a  great 
distance.  "Someone  said  once  'Forgive  them,  for 
they  know  not  what  they  do.'  And  you  will  be 
forgiven,  Daphne,  for  you  didn't  know,  you  don't 
know  now." 

"Tell  me,  tell  me,  if  you're  strong  enough, 
Crystal." 

"Horace  has  written  me  that  it  is  you  he  loves 


252      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

.  .  .  and  wishes  to  marry.  I've  known,  a  long 
time,  that  he  loved  someone.  I  never  dreamed  it 
was  you!" 

"But  why  shouldn't  he  love  me?"  Daphne  asked 
breathlessly. 

"To  love  you,  he  must  be  free  .  .  .  free  of  me, 
that  is.  He  asks  me  to  divorce  him." 

"To  divorce  him!"     Daphne  hardly  breathed  it. 

"Yes.    I'm  his  wife." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  CLEARER  VISION 

LATE  winter  was  like  spring.  The  fruit  trees 
blossomed  before  their  time,  and  a  benign  soft  air 
breathed  over  the  Oxfordshire  meadows. 

Daphne  walked  in  the  Pond  House  garden  and 
up  the  long,  straight  paths.  It  was  early  morning 
of  the  day  after  Crystal's  revelation.  They  had 
been  silent  and  very  tender  with  each  other  all  that 
terrible  afternoon,  and  in  the  evening  when  Bedelia, 
blessedly  cool  and  like  herself,  was  sleeping  soundly 
and  the  rest  of  Pond  House  was  quiet,  they  had  sat 
long  over  the  fire,  reviewing  Horace's  letter. 

A  wave  of  indignation  seemed  to  engulf  Daphne 
again  as  she  thought  of  its  terms.  Every  sweet 
emotion  of  her  heart  and  mind  cried  out  for  Crys- 
tal. Every  Catholic  instinct  in  her  revolted  against 
Horace;  for  it  was  on  Catholic  grounds  he  urged 
the  divorce !  Horace,  that  back-slider,  actually  sug- 
gested that  as  a  Catholic  he  could  not  now  consider 
his  marriage  to  Crystal  as  valid,  because  it  took 
place  in  Alpha's  life-time.  Divorce  was  not  recog- 
nised in  the  Catholic  Church,  and  he  could  not  claim 
to  have  been  free  from  Alpha  when  their  own  cere- 
mony was  performed.  He  urged  Crystal's  divorc- 
ing him  now,  although  in  the  same  breath  he  main- 

253 


254      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

tained  that  there  had  been  no  marriage,  on  the 
ground  that  this  would  make  it  easier  for  her  and 
would  satisfy  legal  requirements  for  him. 

Daphne  had  asked  only  one  question:  Why  had 
Crystal  consented  to  keeping  the  marriage  a  secret? 

"Oh,  Horace  said  he  couldn't  hurt  Alpha,  who 
had  not  long  to  live,  by  the  public  affront  our  mar- 
riage would  be  to  her,"  answered  Crystal  wearily. 
"I  believed  this,  of  course.  I  realize  now  that  he 
knew  Alpha  had  left  her  money  to  him,  and  thought 
that  she  would  alter  her  will  if  she  knew  he  had 
married  again.  Alpha's  money,  you  see,  was  the 
foundation  of  Horace's  Bovo  fortune." 

"Then  it  was  really  poor  Alpha  who  paid  for  the 
wrist  watch  and  the  roses  and  the  string  of  pearls," 
said  Daphne,  grimly  humorous. 

"And  once  secret,  it  always  seemed  difficult  to 
make  the  marriage  known,"  Crystal  went  on.  "We 
had  planned  to  announce  it  when  he  returned  to 
England  last  June  .  .  .  but  Fate,  behind  an  iron 
grill,  was  stronger  than  Horace !"  she  smiled  wanly 
at  the  girl. 

"His  own  colossal  egotism  was  stronger  than 
right  or  kindness,"  replied  Daphne,  the  hot  colour 
rising  in  her  face.  "I  shall  never  trust  my  own  in- 
tuition again.  I  thought  him  so  fine,  so  noble,  so 
generous !" 

"He  is  generous,  and  in  many  ways  he  is  astound- 
ingly  fine,"  said  the  older  woman,  tolerantly.  "It's 
only  that  he  doesn't  ring  true  .  .  .  some  fault  in 
the  original  casting,"  she  mused.  "Nothing  could 
be  more  un-German  than  Horace  .  .  .  yet  the  same 


THE  CLEARER  VISION  255 

thing  appears  in  his  nature  and  in  the  nature  of  the 
German  race.  An  inherent  wrongness,  an  alloy  that 
by  hideous  accident  was  mixed  with  the  true  metal. 
You  and  I  are  suffering  from  it  in  Horace.  The 
whole  world  has  suffered  from  it  in  Germany." 

But  Daphne,  with  the  hot  intolerance  of  youth, 
could  not  make  any  allowance;  black  was  black  to 
her  .  .  .  for  Horace's  conduct  no  possible  excuse, 
now  or  ever,  was  to  be  made.  She  was  for  punish- 
ing him  bitterly,  publishing  his  infamy.  Was 
he  not  to  suffer  any  of  that  agony  he  had  so  wan- 
tonly inflicted  upon  Crystal? 

But  the  latter's  gentleness  prevailed.  And  a  smil- 
ing suggestion  that  perhaps  she  would  not  even  be 
there  to  see  that  retribution,  brought  Daphne  to 
her  friend's  side  in  deep  alarm. 

"Not  here  ?  Do  you  mean  you're  not  well,  Crys- 
tal? Was  it  your  heart  made  you  faint?  I  shall 
bring  Doctor  Colefax  out  to  examine  you  this  after- 
noon !" 

"I've  already  been  to  a  specialist,"  Crystal  re- 
plied lightly.  "At  first  I  thought  (when  all  this 
originally  happened)  that  it  would  be  a  matter  of 
weeks  and  I  was  ridiculously  pleased  to  be  going. 
But  then  I  had  to  picture  poor  Katty  with  my  diffi- 
cult young  .  .  .  Dr.  Bryan  Doble  was  the  man  I 
saw.  He  says  if  I  am  careful  I  can  go  on  for 
years  ...  I  must  have  no  worry  or  sudden  shock." 

"So  Horace  was  nearly  a  murderer  as  well  as  a 
thief,"  said  the  girl  fiercely. 

She  quickened  her  steps  now  in  the  fresh  morn- 
ing, thinking  of  this  conversation,  of  Crystal's 


256      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

lovely  white  face,  on  which  the  brows  and  the  long 
lashes  looked  so  black.  Were  all  men  wicked  ?  She 
thought  again  of  Merton.  But  that  was  different, 
he  was  only  a  boy,  Katty's  boy,  too,  and  Crystal's 
nephew  and  her  own  cousin.  And  Merton  had  been 
all  these  years  at  the  Front,  risking  his  life.  Horace 
would  never  risk  his  life.  Even  Sir  Blundell,  years 
older  than  Horace,  had  both  risked  and  given  his. 
No,  all  men  were  not  like  Horace.  And  she  re>- 
membered  that  Katty,  who  knew  more  of  men  than 
anyone  else,  believed  them  to  be  much  better  than 
women  were. 

At  that  instant  she  heard  Simonne  calling  her; 
"Mademoiselle !"  She  said  "Mademoiselle"  as  they 
said  it  in  Alost.  In  Rijsdijk,  where  Daphne  had 
learned  the  language,  they  said  "Juffrouw!"  In  a 
moment  Simmone  came  like  a  small  blue  and  blonde 
whirlwind  upon  her. 

A  telegram  had  arrived  .  .  .  from  Lady  Freke 
for  Madame  McClinton.  Mademoiselle  must  look, 
look !  a  letter  had  reached  London  from  Alost,  from 
Simonne's  father.  They  had  gone  back  to  their  own 
town.  And  her  father  must  have  written  to  say  her 
mother  needed  her.  Simonne  was  certain. 

The  telegram  was  :  "Returned  last  night.  Letter 
here  from  Simonne's  father.  Holding  it  for  your 
instructions.  How  is  everybody?  Love.  Katty," 
and  it  was  marked  "Reply  Paid." 

It  seemed  the  boy  was  waiting.  Daphne  decided 
upon  her  course  unhesitatingly.  She  would  answer : 
"Bringing  Simonne  town  today.  Bedelia  recover- 
ing serious  attack  pneumonia.  Crystal  exhausted. 


THE  CLEARER  VISION  257 

Regret  absence  from  Hostel.  Love,  thousand 
times,  Daphne." 

She  explained  her  plan  to  Simonne  as  they 
walked  down  to  the  gate  to  find  the  messenger.  A 
boat  was  leaving  Saturday  night  for  Holland.  If 
her  mother  needed  her,  Simonne  should  cross  then, 
trusting  to  find  her  way  into  Belgium.  Daphne 
could  get  her  the  necessary  passports  and  instruc- 
tions. Simonne  must  pack  all  her  things  now  on 
the  chance  of  going.  Daphne  did  not  tell  her  that 
she  meant  to  go  herself.  The  idea  had  only  just 
occurred  to  her.  But  Flemish-speaking  Americans 
\vere  still  needed  in  both  Holland  and  Belgium.  She 
knew  that  Lady  Freke  had  been  asked  to  go  on 
this  very  boat. 

What  a  chance  to  escape  the  horror  of  Horace's 
possible  reappearance !  No  one  should  know  where 
she  had  gone,  except  Crystal  and  Katty,  and  they 
would  not  tell. 

She  made  a  hasty  parcel  of  Horace's  pearls,  the 
watch  and  the  cheque  for  five  hundred  pounds,  for- 
tunately not  yet  deposited  in  the  bank.  On  a  bit 
of  paper  she  wrote : 

"Your  letter  made  Crystal  faint.  The  truth  came 
out  before  she  recovered.  Thank  God  you  have 
not  added  murder  to  your  other  crimes.  .  .  . 
Daphne  O'Brien." 

This  package  should  go  registered,  from  Sallum 
Prior,  so  that  Horace  would  think  her  still  there. 

Her  other  preparations  were  soon  made.  Crys- 
tal approved  her  going,  a  little  wistfully,  and  they 
clung  to  each  other  at  parting.  But  Simonne's  joy 


258      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

dominated  everything.  She  was  not  ungrateful  for 
their  care,  she  would  write  Madame,  oh,  very  often ! 
She  would  send  post  cards  of  Alost  to  Bobby  of 
what  the  "fal-se,  fal-se"  Germans  had  left  there. 
She  would  name  a  kitten  for  Bedelia  and  a  little 
pig,  when  they  had  pigs  again!  for  Mr.  Honey. 
But  she  was  soon  to  see  her  mother !  she  would  take 
care  of  her  .  .  .  men  knew  nothing  of  care  for  a 
sick  woman. 

"And  when  I  am  an  officer  in  the  Belgian  Army, 
Simonne,"  prophesied  Ri-Ri  with  sparkling  eyes, 
"I  shall  ride  up  to  Alost,  on  a  fine  horse,  and  I 
shall  call  in  a  loud  voice:  'Where  is  the  house  of 
Mademoiselle  Simonne  van  den  Poel  ?'  and  Simonne 
will  come  running  out  with  a  glass  of  beer  for  Cap- 
tain Henri  de  Wiart,  and  a  pail  of  water  for  his 
fine  horse,  and  we  will  drink  to  the  Pond  House, 
and  to  Bedelia  and  Bobby!" 

"And  to  Weelum  Jawge!"  put  in  Bobby. 

"Yeh,  to  Mr.  Honey!"  mocked  Ri-Ri. 

"Good-bye,  Simonne!"  they  all  called,  running 
after  the  fly.  "Au  revoir!  Kill  the  Kaiser  when 
you  see  him!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"DANK  u  WEL,  ENGELAND  !" 

"S'vmonne  van  den  Poel,  Engelandf 

THIS  was  all  the  inscription  on  the  letter  they 
found  at  Cadogan  Square,  although  on  the  back  it 
admitted  that  it  was  from  C.  van  den  Poel,  naively 
adding,  "Vader  van  Simonne." 

Extraordinary  that  it  had  reached  Simonne. 

"Very  creditable  to  our  postal  service,"  said 
Grimmer,  as  Daphne  marvelled  over  this.  Yet  she 
herself  had  received  a  letter  not  long  before  from 
Chicago,  addressed  only  "Miss  Daphne  O'Brien, 
Flanders,"  which  had  been  safely  delivered  at  the 
Hostel. 

Simonne' s  little  face  was  a  study,  as,  plumped 
down  in  the  first  chair  in  the  entrance  hall,  she 
arduously  made  out  her  father's  letter.  Daphne 
also  was  too  impatient  to  go  upstairs. 

"Tell  me  about  Lady  Freke,"  she  asked  of 
Grimmer. 

"Her  ladyship  came  in  late  last  night;  very  tired, 
she  was,  Miss,  but  would  eat  nothing.  This  morn- 
ing I  called  a  taxi  before  nine.  My  lady  said  she 
was  needed  at  the  'Ostel.  Your  telegram  came  at 
ten,  Miss,  and  her  ladyship  had  me  telephone  it  to 
her." 

259 


260      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"I'll  go  to  her  at  once,  and  Grimmer,  please  don't 
let  anyone  know  I'm  in  town." 

"Certainly,  Miss,"  agreed  the  large  one,  looking 
with  studied  carelessness  at  the  card  tray.  "Several 
enquiries  for  you,  Miss,  most  urgent.  Every  day. 
And  a  number  of  parcels  .  .  .  flowers,  her  lady- 
ship's maid  said.  Now  in  your  room,  Miss." 

"Clever  old  Grimmer!"  thought  Daphne.  But  she 
said  only,  Thank  you  so  much.  I  don't  want  any- 
one, anyone  at  all  to  think  I'm  here." 

If  Grimmer  had  a  momentary  regret  for  the 
frequent  half  sovereigns  that  had  accompanied  those 
"several  enquiries"  he  allowed  no  trace  of  it  to 
cloud  his  benignant  speeding  of  Miss  O'Brien  and 
the  "Belgian  young  person"  on  their  hasty  way. 

They  hurried  by  Tube  to  the  Hostel.  On  the 
way  Daphne  read  van  den  Poel's  letter : 

"Simonne!  our  dear  daughter. 

"Now  is  there  by  good  luck"  (ran  its  laboured 
Flemish)  "a  cousin  from  my  mother  in  Holland,  by 
Dordrecht.  He  is  a  good  man,  very  poor,  married 
with  a  Hollander,  and  many  children.  It  is  a  pity 
you  must  leave  Engeland.  We  hear  that  all  is  good 
in  Engeland.  Much  to  eat.  Here  is  there  little.  But 
your  mother  is  very  sick.  Jan  and  Piet  can  not  take 
good  care  of  your  mother.  And  Jan  was  shot  by  a 
soldier.  In  the  leg.  Your  mother  asks  always  for 
Simonne.  My  cousin  is  also  Cornelis  van  den  Poel, 
so  as  I.  He  will  help  you  to  come  to  Alost.  The 
village  is  Rijsdijk.  The  father  from  Cornelis  is 
Pieter,  but  Pieter  is  dead.  Everybody  in  Rijsdijk 
will  know  Pieter. 


"DANK  U  WEL,  ENGELAND!"       261 

"Be  careful,  Simonne.  And  come  quickly.  Your 
father.  C.  v.  d.  POEL." 

"And  now  it  is  yet  two  days  before  I  can  start!" 
mourned  Simonne.  "My  mother  is  very  sick,  I 
know  it.  My  father  will  not  write  if  she  is  not 
very  sick.  We  do  not  like  to  write  in  Alost.  But 
when  I  come  to  Rijsdijk  I  can  walk  quickly  to  the 
boat,  and  the  boat  will  bring  me  to  another  cousin, 
only  three  days  from  Alost,  walking  all  the  day." 

Daphne  looked  at  her  curiously.  "You're  not 
afraid,  Simonne,  of  the  long  journey?" 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  Simonne.  "If  the  Germans 
are  there,  I  go,  the  same!" 

When  they  walked  into  the  Hostel,  there  stood 
Lady  Freke  at  her  desk,  in  unaccustomed  black, 
but  composed  and  even  cheerful.  She  asked  about 
Crystal  and  Bedelia  with  anxiety,  but  reassured  by 
Daphne,  turned  her  attention  to  the  matter  of 
Simonne's  departure. 

"Only,"  she  said,  "it's  like  sending  a  lamb  into 
the  lion's  den  to  let  that  child  go  alone." 

"Nothing  would  stop  her,"  Daphne  answered; 
"the  whole  resistance  of  Flanders  is  in  that  small 
Fleming." 

The  desk  had  a  big  bowl  of  violets  upon  it. 
"Crystal  must  have  telegraphed  her  florist  to  deliver 
them  here,"  Katty  said.  And  as  they  talked,  both 
the  woman  and  the  girl  inhaled  their  sweetness 
gratefully. 

"Crystal  thinks  she  can  return  to  the  Hostel  next 
Wednesday,"  Daphne  ventured.  "And,  Katty,  I 


262       WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

wish  to  go  to  Holland  when  Simonne  does.  There 
are  very  good  reasons.  Will  you  mind  if  I  don't 
tell  you  what  they  are?" 

"Not  minding  in  this  case  means  helping  you  to 
do  what  I  disapprove  ?"  answered  "Lady  Freke,  with 
some  of  her  old  sparkle.  But  she  was  not  so  much 
in  the  dark  as  she  would  have  been  if  Grimmer  had 
not  mentioned  Mr.  Dimock's  arrival  and  frequent 
appearances;  if  she  had  not  seen,  in  glancing  into 
Daphne's  room  that  morning,  a  surprising  array  of 
roses,  orchids  and  fruit  blossoms,  and  a  number  of 
letters  in  Horace's  well  known  hand. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  'tis  the  only  thing  to  do?" 
she  asked  now,  seriously. 

"Yes,  Katty.  And  Crystal  is  willing.  They  need 
Flemish-speaking  volunteers  over  there.  You  know 
how  keen  they  were  to  get  you.  Let  me  go  in  your 
place." 

Katty  considered.  "Well,  if  you'll  agree  to  two 
things.  First,  to  stay  in  Rysdijk,  where  Vrouw  van 
Waaldorp  will  take  care  of  you.  Second,  to  let  me 
pay  all  expenses." 

Daphne  managed  not  to  cry,  as  she  said :  "Crys- 
tal is  giving  me  thirty  pounds  a  month  .  .  .  plenty, 
plenty!" 

"Very  well,  I  shall  give  you  thirty  more.  Sup- 
pose I  make  it  up  to  an  even  three  hundred  dollars  ? 
There  may  be  calls  upon  you,  my  child." 

By  Saturday,  passports,  authorisations,  letters  of 
introduction,  all  were  ready.  Katty  took  both  girls 
to  tea  at  the  big  Americanised  hotel  near  the  Hostel. 


"DANK  U  WEL,  ENGELAND!"       263 

A  little  lady  from  California,  one  of  the  Food  Com- 
mission, came  too,  but  she  would  not  eat. 

"And  such  delicious  fresh  cakes !"  urged  Daphne. 

"No,"  said  the  little  lady;  she  Was  making  her 
tenth  trip  across  the  North  Sea.  "I  never  eat  be- 
forehand. They  say  you  float  better  when  you 
strike  a  mine  if  you're  empty!" 

However,  Daphne  was  not  alarmed.  She  and 
Simonne  not  only  ate  with  enthusiasm,  but  took 
along  a  royal  basket  of  provisions,  Grimmer' s  gift 
for  the  journey. 

Katty  went  with  them  to  Fenchurch  Street  Sta- 
tion. "I  don't  like  farewells,"  she  said,  "so  I'll  go 
no  further,"  and  resolutely  turned  away  when  she 
had  seen  them  comfortably  settled  in  their  compart- 
ment. But  when  the  train  drew  out,  nearly  half 
an  hour  later,  and  Simonne  leaned  from  the  win- 
dow to  say  "Dank  U  Wei,  Engeland!"  they  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Lady  Freke's  little  black-clad  figure, 
the  sombre  veil  blowing  against  her  white  hair,  as 
she  watched  their  train  slide  away  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IN  HOLLAND 

THEY  met  no  mines,  floating  or  anchored.  And 
reaching  Rotterdam  in  the  normal  grey  mist  of 
that  picture-card  approach  through  flat  distances  and 
past  squat  barges  and  windmills,  they  made  their 
way  to  the  train  and  were  soon  in  Dordrecht. 

Katty  loved  Siena  and  Cork  and  Oxford,  Daphne 
remembered.  Crystal  adored  Girgenti  .  .  .  but  the 
girl  thought  rapturously  that  she  loved  her  "Dort" 
as  dearly. 

The  smoky  little  tram  that  must  take  them  to 
Rijsdijk  had  just  departed,  so  they  had  an  hour  to 
themselves.  Daphne  was  only  too  happy  to  wander 
through  the  narrow  streets  she  recalled  with  such 
pleasure. 

It  was  curious  that  Fate  should  be  bringing  her 
back  to  the  only  two  places  she  knew  well  in  Hol- 
land .  .  .  Dordrecht  and  Rijsdijk.  Nothing  seemed 
altered  though  it  was  six  years  since  they  had  been 
there,  Katty,  Crystal  with  the  baby  Bedelia,  and 
Daphne  herself.  Mr.  McClinton  was  in  London 
for  some  long-drawn-out  History  Conference,  and 
they  had  spent  the  three  months  of  his  absence  in 
Rijsdijk. 

Simonne  walked  about  with  an  amusing  air  of 
264 


IN  HOLLAND  265 

consequence.  She  had  been  such  a  modest  little 
mouse  in  England!  "But  here  she  steps  high,"  as 
Daphne  wrote  Crystal.  "She  certainly  feels  her 
oats."  Daphne  gave  her  some  money  and  asked 
her  to  buy  a  honey  cake,  while  she  herself  strolled 
toward  the  Cathedral.  The  sun  shone  now,  but 
so  much  mist  lingers  always  in  the  Dordrecht  air 
that  even  at  close  range  the  great  square  topped 
tower  was  blue,  as  with  distance. 

Certain  phrases  run  in  the  mind  .  .  .  and  to 
Daphne  recurred  continually: 

"This  Venice  of  the  northern  seas." 

The  war  was  over,  but  it  had  been  next  door.  It 
might  as  well  have  been  in  Africa.  There  was  no 
suggestion  of  it  here  .  .  .  but  the  same  detachment 
about  this  city  of  canals  and  boats  and  ancient 
houses  that  Daphne  remembered  in  that  lazy  sum- 
mer in  Venice  with  Katty  and  the  boys  .  .  .  long, 
long  before  war  times.  Here  the  dear  Hollanders 
went  about  their  business  as  though  the  clock  had 
never  moved.  Through  the  shining  windows  of  a 
tall  house  on  the  Delfthaven  Daphne  recognised,  in 
its  old  place  on  the  wall,  the  melting  landscape  of 
a  famous  Dutch  painter,  whose  daughter  she  had 
visited  in  that  very  house.  Her  memory  dupli- 
cated for  her  the  polished  old  furniture  of  the  spot- 
less room,  and  a  hard  little  rosy  peach  on  the  price- 
less blue  of  an  old  Delft  plate,  while  her  friend, 
pallid  and  composed  as  a  Ver  Meer  genre  canvas, 
smiled  at  her  over  the  afternoon  coffee  cups. 


266      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

She  came  back  to  the  Cathedral  to  find  Simonne 
in  a  fever  of  impatience.  They  had  just  time  for 
their  train,  and  the  little  boys  who  carried  their 
bags  clattered  noisily  on  their  "klumpen"  after  the 
"Engelsche  dames."  They  are  the  worst  little  boys 
in  the  world,  the  little  Hollanders,  for  all  they  grow 
into  such  fine  men;  but  when  they  attempted  some 
impudence  upon  receipt  of  their  quite  adequate  bits 
of  silver,  it  was  an  obvious  surprise  to  them  to 
have  the  younger  of  the  supposed  "Engelsche 
dames"  pour  out  a  tirade  at  them  in  their  own  lan- 
guage. They  retired  hastily  .  .  .  little  Hollanders 
are  not  courageous,  and  stuck  their  tongues  out  and 
yelled  "Vlaamsche !"  at  her.  They  likewise  shouted 
pleasantly 

"Keizer  op! 
Vlaminger   'neder !" 

evidently  an  old  war  time  taunt.  ("Kaiser  up! 
Fleming  under!")  And  Simonne  was  retorting 
from  the  door  of  the  tram  in  unexpectedly  strident 
tones  upon  the  international  situation,  "The  Flem- 
ish at  any  rate  have  dared  to  fight!"  when  luckily 
they  started. 

Rijsdijk  was  only  fifteen  minutes  away,  even  by 
the  jerky  little  tram,  which  stopped  with  a  bounce 
near  the  inn  .  .  .  they  called  it  the  "Hotel"  in 
Rijsdijk  .  .  .  Vrouw  van  Waaldorp,  with  the  win- 
try sun  shining  through  the  great  white  wings  of  her 
flapping  cap,  stood  in  the  doorway  just  as  she  had 
stood  six  years  earlier. 

She  remembered  Daphne  at  once,  and  of  course 


IN  HOLLAND  267 

she  knew  Simonne's  cousin,  a  good  man  down  the 
"Kekker,"  she  said  ...  the  Kekker  was  a  little 
lane  of  the  poorer  houses.  .  .  .  And  here,  as  it  was 
the  dinner  hour,  they  found  Cornelis,  a  bald,  kind 
little  Belgian,  with  a  tall  good  looking  Dutch  wife, 
Janneke,  and  seven  little  Jannekes,  all  gazing  wide 
eyed  at  the  strangers.  Cornelis  and  his  vrouw  took 
in  new  ideas  slowly,  but  once  in  all  was  well.  Yes, 
surely,  Cornelis  would  go  with  Simonne  to  the  fron- 
tier, by  water,  and  start  her  homewards. 

It  was  all  too  easy.  By  three  in  the  afternoon 
Cornelis  and  Simonne  had  departed,  the  small  girl 
impatient  and  important,  her  money  (both  Crystal 
and  Katty  had  supplied  her  well)  sewed  into  the 
hem  of  her  petticoat.  She  had  no  misgivings,  ex- 
cept as  to  her  mother's  health. 

Cornelis  returned  early  next  morning.  They  had 
gone  up  the  river  nearly  to  the  frontier.  There 
was  naturally  some  delay  at  the  dividing  line — who 
could  blame  Belgium  for  watching  her  borders? 
— but  after  that,  no  trouble.  They  found  a  good 
man  who  was  going  to  Alost,  and  who  knew 
Simonne's  father,  and  Simonne  had  spent  very 
little  of  her  money,  "Gelukkig!" 

And  she  had  gone  away  rather  white,  Juffrouw, 
poor  little  maid !  but  laughing. 

Daphne  found  herself,  now  that  this  responsi- 
bility was  off  her  shoulders,  absurdly  tired.  Crys- 
tal had  foreseen  this,  and  had  made  her  promise  to 
rest  three  days  before  seeing  to  her  business  for 
Katty.  "One  has  to  grow  old/'  she  had  said  to 


268      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

the  girl,  "to  understand  that  emotional  fatigue  is 
more  severe  than  physical.  You've  passed  through 
some  serious  times,  my  Daphne." 

So  she  drifted,  well  wrapped  against  the  cold,  on 
the  sluggish  river,  steering  the  clumsy  boat  in  which 
Mijntje  would  push  her  off.  (Baas,  the  handy  man 
of  old  days,  was  not  yet  back  from  the  army.)  Or 
she  wandered  about  the  village,  renewing  old  ac- 
quaintances amongst  the  peasants.  She  found  a 
natural  anxiety  lest  Holland  be  drawn  into  new 
difficulties;  much  grumbling  at  the  high  prices;  lit- 
tle understanding  of  the  real  issues  of  either  the 
war  or  the  peace. 

The  old  (doctor,  however,  intelligent  and  well  read, 
deplored  his  country's  long  forced  neutrality,  and 
hated  Holland's  guest,  the  Kaiser,  as  bitterly  as  the 
Belgians  did.  Alas,  he  was  not  over  fond  of  the 
Belgians,  or  even  of  the  Flemings.  Daphne  dis- 
covered that  the  two  peoples,  such  close  neigh- 
bours, were  astonishingly  divergent  despite  their 
earlier  unity. 

But  with  all  these  outside  interests,  and  the  plan- 
ning for  her  immediate  work,  Daphne  was  distracted 
by  her  own  problems.  Horace  had  sent  her  a  brief 
note,  forwarded  from  Cadogan  Square : 

"What  is  there  to  say?  You  are  too  young  to 
understand  a  man's  nature.  One  day  you  will  know 
what  you  have  so  lightly"  (Lightly!  thought  Daphne) 
"thrown  away.  I  shall  always  be  ready  .  .  .  waiting 
.  .  .  longing  for  you,  wherever  I  am,  no  matter 


IN  HOLLAND  269 

what  has  happened  to  either  of  us.    Buenos  Aires  will 
always  find  me. 

"HORACE." 

"As  though  I  were  a  prodigal  daughter,"  mused 
Daphne  indignantly.  This  was  the  first  word  she 
had  had  from  Mr.  Dimock.  She  sickened  to  re- 
member his  love  making,  her  own  inclination  to  re- 
spond, Crystal's  suffering. 

Even  a  letter  from  Merton  did  not  restore  her 
old  self-confidence.  It  was  burned  into  her  con- 
sciousness that  she,  in  some  way,  must  have  been 
to  blame.  The  boy  wrote : 

"I'm  not  going  to  bother  you,  Daffy-do wn-Dilly. 
You  know  how  I  feel  about  you,  and  I  know,  worse 
luck!  how  you  feel  about  cousins  marrying.  But  we 
go  out  to  Vladivostock  shortly.  I'd  be  darn  glad  to 
be  on  the  same  continent  with  you,  but  after  all,  it's 
the  same  world.  Only  it  would  be  pretty  fine  to 
think,  when  I'm  up  alone  in  my  machine,  at  night, 
over  that  foreign  country,  that  not  so  far  away,  look- 
ing up  at  the  same  stars,  was  the  sweetest,  dearest 
being  in  that  world,  and  that  she  cared  how  I  came 
through.  Think  it  over,  Daphne.  I  can't  urge  my 
claims.  You  know  everything  there  is  to  know  about 
me.  But  you  haven't  begun  to  guess  what  you  mean 
to  me. 

"Call  me  all  the  hard  names  you  like,  so  long  as 
you  don't  call  me  cousin. 

"MERTON  HOWARD  WHITE." 

If  he  only  weren't  a  cousin!  or  if  he'd  be  con- 


270      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

tent  to  stay  a  cousin,  or  a  brother  .  .  .  the  kind- 
est, handsomest,  straightest  brother  any  girl  ever 
had! 

Daphne  was  walking  along  the  dyke  by  the  broad, 
scarcely  moving  river.  It  was  twilight,  a  cold,  clear 
evening,  and  no  wind  stirred  in  the  tall  bare  trees 
by  the  dyke,  or  amongst  the  lopped  willows.  A 
bird  flew  homewards.  If  it  had  been  later  in  the 
year,  Daphne  thought,  it  would  have  been  a  stork, 
delicate  silhouette  against  the  pale  sky,  bound  for 
the  next  village.  Some  labourers  passed  her  on 
their  way  home,  heavy-going,  silent  men,  who  an- 
swered her  good  evening  ("Goede  Avond!")  with 
a  pleased,  gruff  "Avon',  Juffrouw!" 

She  loved  Holland,  loved  the  Hollanders,  espe- 
cially in  the  out-of-the-way  villages.  There  was 
a  kind  of  primitive  justice  in  life  there.  You 
worked,  you  ate  and  slept.  You  tried  to  be  hon- 
est and  faithful.  You  were  kind.  If  the  season 
was  good,  you  prospered.  If  bad,  you  suffered. 
People  far  away  had  been  at  war;  there  had  been 
danger  for  Holland  too  of  course.  Powerful 
countries  had  tried  to  drag  Holland  into  that  war; 
but  they  had  not  succeeded.  There  had  been  no 
war  in  the  quiet  land.  And  how  good  the  coffee 
tasted  in  your  little  two  roomed  house,  when  the 
vrouw  took  a  burning  lump  of  river  peat  from  the 
hearth  and  stuck  it  into  the  "stoofje"  on  which 
your  coffee  pot  would  stand  hot  and  comforting! 

Yes,  this  was  the  place  to  find  peace.  She  did 
not  allow  herself  to  think  of  that  real  haven  of 


IN  HOLLAND  271 

peace,  the  convent.     And  even  the  convent  meant 
London. 

She  had  escaped  from  a  London  hateful  for  the 
moment  because  it  held  Horace.  His  letter  had 
found  her  out,  but  he  would  not.  Indeed,  it  sounded 
as  though  he  were  already  on  his  way  to  the  Ar- 
gentine. Had  he  written  Crystal?  Had  he  seen 
her?  What  a  position!  What  a  question  to  have 
to  ask!  Had  he  seen  his  wife?  But  he  would  be 
afraid  to  face  her,  and  Crystal  would  never  see  him 
again  of  her  own  will.  Such  a  position  for  a  woman 
as  proud  as  Crystal  to  find  herself  in!  Daphne's 
cheeks  burned  as  though  the  insult  had  been  put 
upon  her,  not  upon  Crystal. 

That  the  best  woman  she  had  ever  known  (ex- 
cept, of  course,  Reverend  Mother;  and  Reverend 
Mother  was  a  saint,  so  did  not  count)  .  .  .  should 
be  the  one  to  suffer !  and  that  she,  Daphne,  to  whom 
she  had  been  an  angel,  should  be  the  cause!  And 
Katty  ...  (as  Crystal  was  the  best,  so  was  Katty 
the  kindest)  .  .  .  Katty  had  lost  Sir  Blundell,  and 
now  she  might  lose  one  of  her  boys  .  .  .  and  it  was 
Daphne  again  who  was  making  one  of  those  boys 
suffer ! 

She  stood  a  moment  looking  back  at  the  village. 
The  lights  of  the  little  inn  reflected  unendingly  in 
the  river.  She  did  not  think  of  them.  It  had  re- 
vealed itself  to  her  that  she  was  the  cause  of  pain 
in  the  two  families  she  loved  the  best  in  the  world, 
the  two  that  had  been  kindest  to  her  in  the  whole 
world. 

Her  three  idle  days  at  an  end,  Daphne  plunged 


272       WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

into  the  work.  Rijsdijk  was  not  central,  but  the 
comfort  of  Vrouw  Waaldorp's  devoted  care  out- 
balanced the  fatigue  of  her  daily  journeys. 

In  any  event  she  must  spend  some  days  in  learn- 
ing the  ropes,  and  finding  where  she  was  most 
needed.  Her  experience  at  the  Hostel  inclined  her 
to  some  post  where  she  could  not  only  help  the 
Flemish,  but  where  she  could  be  interpreter  for  the 
French-speaking  Belgians  as  well.  Comparatively 
few  of  the  latter  spoke  Flemish,  that  is  to  say  Dutch, 
and  only  the  better  educated  amongst  the  Dutch 
spoke  French. 

Her  letters  of  introduction  were  excellent.  Even 
more  useful  was  the  fact  that,  an  American  lady, 
she  had  troubled  to  learn  "Hollandsch."  The  Hol- 
landers expected  English  and  Americans  to  know 
German  .  .  .  they  were  always  delightfully  sur- 
prised to  find  their  own  language  understood  and 
spoken. 

So  Daphne  went  from  Rotterdam  to  Utrecht, 
from  Rijsdijk  to  Harden,  from  Rosendaal  to  Am- 
sterdam. Her  three  hundred  dollars  a  month  made 
the  way  easy.  Her  connections  with  the  Hostel  en- 
abled her  to  place  scores  of  special  "cases"  advan- 
tageously in  England  and  Scotland.  Her  friend- 
liness smoothed  the  most  difficult  situations  and, 
little  as  she  realized  it,  her  lovely  face  was  "Open 
Sesame." 

Soon  she  could  write  to  Crystal  that  she  was  truly 
happy  again.  To  Katty  that  her  work  was  in  a  fair 
way  to  supplement  the  Hostel.  To  Merton  that 
she  was  proud  of  him  ...  he  had  now  a  cap- 


IN  HOLLAND  273 

taincy  .  .  .  but  that  he  must  be  a  beloved  brother 
since  cousin  was  not  to  his  liking.  To  Horace  she 
wrote  not  at  all.  Letters  were  not  easy  to  Daphne, 
and  she  drew  a  long  breath  when  she  had  handed 
her  three  to  "Jan  of  the  Post." 

A  few  days  later  came  a  letter  from  Crystal. 

"I  envy  you  the  charm  of  Rijsdijk,  dearest  child, 
but  through  your  new  environment  will  soon  pass  a 
curiously  foreign  element  ...  a  Serbian  officer,  no 
less !  If  I  were  asked  for  the  most  unlikely  com- 
bination possible,  even  in  this  time  of  change,  I  should 
say,  if  I  were  wild  enough  to  think  of  it,  a  proud 
young  Montenegrin  officer  in  a  Rijsdijk  inn  .  .  . 
Dakovich  in  Holland !  Katty  has  just  heard  from 
the  beautiful  boy.  He  is  at  the  Hague,  on  a  mis- 
sion from  his  government.  She  has  telegraphed  him 
to  look  you  up  at  Rijsdijk." 

The  rest  of  the  letter  could  wait ;  Daphne  leaned 
from  the  inn  balcony,  where  on  Sundays  and  holi- 
days the  good  Rotterdamers  and  Dordrechters  sat 
at  the  little  tables  drinking  their  beer  or  coffee  .  .  . 
but  on  other  days  never  a  soul  disturbed  Vrouw 
van  Waaldorp's  quiet  life.  Crystal's  letter  of  itself 
was  certainly  introducing  a  foreign  element, 
Daphne  thought  .  .  .  why  should  she  pause  now 
when  so  much  called  to  be  done,  mooning  at  the 
river  in  the  morning  sunlight  about  the  unknown 
Dakovich? 

Both  Crystal  and  Katty  had  talked  so  much  of 
Stefan,  of  his  beauty,  his  silent  charm,  that  he  lived 
in  Daphne's  mind  almost  as  vividly  as  Merton  or 


274      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Hazleby,  with  the  added  interest,  poignancy  almost, 
of  his  mysterious  country.  "Stefan  is  Serbia,  Ser- 
bia is  Stefan,"  Katty  had  said.  He  was  even  more 
than  Serbia,  he  was  Montenegro,  that  unconquered 
Serbia  of  wild  mountains. 

Daphne  thought  of  him  in  Katty's  luminous  blue 
drawing  room,  looking  down  on  the  gay  little  figure 
of  his  adopted  "Majka";  thought  of  him  in  the 
green  coolness  of  the  Pond  House  garden.  She 
could  even  think  of  him  in  those  savage  mountains 
she  had  never  seen,  riding  at  the  head  of  his  men. 
She  could  evoke  an  image  of  him,  clattering  down 
the  broad  streets  of  his  capital,  although  she  had 
seen  the  lovely  little  city  only  in  pictures  .  .  .  but 
she  could  not,  some  way,  think  of  him  in  Rijsdijk. 

And  when  she  came  in  that  evening  after  her 
long  ride  to  her  near-base  of  operations  (she  had 
hired  a  bicycle  as  the  most  practical  means  of  getting 
about)  .  .  .  Vrouw  van  Waaldorp  met  her  with 
bursting  excitement. 

"O  Juffrouw!  such  a  mooi  man!"  she  began  in 
her  mixed  Dutch  and  English.  "And  zeker,  a  son 
from  a  king!  So  as  a  king  he  walked  in,  and  say 
he  will  see  you,  and  when  .  .  .  bang  (frightened) 
I  was,  zeer  bang!  when  I  open  the  door  and  show 
him  the  tafel  ready  for  your  avond  maal  (supper), 
he  shiver  and  say,  'A  fire !'  Oh,  so  as  a  king  he  say 
it !  'A  fire,  Vrouw,  quick !' ' 

Daphne,  followed  by  the  voluble  Vrouw,  had  gone 
to  her  room,  smoothed  the  braids  around  her  head, 
slipped  on  a  wide  fresh  collar  and  drawn  up  wide 
fresh  cuffs. 


IN  HOLLAND  275 

They  had  no  nuns  in  Stefan's  country,  or  he 
Would  have  thought,  as  Daphne  opened  the  door  of 
the  long  "zaal"  and  came  toward  him  in  the  lamp- 
light, that  a  young  nun,  suddenly  entering  a  world 
of  youth  and  warmth,  was  approaching.  The  room 
was  large,  bare  and  grey.  The  long  white  table 
had  two  glowing  little  "stoof  jes"  on  it  and  a  huge 
glass  jug  of  milk.  Stefan  himself  stood  in  front 
of  the  only  colour  (except  for  the  coals  in  the  "stoof- 
jes"),  in  the  room,  the  fire  in  the  tiled  stove  .  .  . 
so  that  Daphne's  slim  black  figure  outlined  itself 
sharply.  Over  the  table  hung  a  big  oil  lamp,  cov- 
ered by  a  white  shade,  and  by  this  he  could  see 
her  radiant  face  and  the  limpid  blue-green  eyes. 

"I  am  sorry  if  I've  kept  you  waiting,  Mr.  Dako- 
vich,"  Daphne  said,  offering  her  hand. 

Stefan  lifted  it  to  his  lips.  Daphne  was  not 
used  to  that  form  of  salutation,  and  raised  startled 
eyes  to  Stefan.  She  was  a  year  older  than  he,  but 
she  felt,  for  the  moment,  ridiculously  young,  and 
a  little  frightened. 

"So  as  a  king!"  the  Vrouw  had  said  .  .  .  and 
Daphne  thought  to  herself  that  she  was  seeing  a 
king  at  last,  the  son  of  a  king,  rather.  Great  beauty 
in  the  human  being  is  always  arresting;  and  al- 
though the  girl  was  prepared  for  the  young  Ser- 
bian's, she  was  startled.  .  .  .  The  son  of  a  king,  of 
course,  must  have  beauty.  She  searched  the  dark 
flushed  proud  face  above  her  as  unconsciously  as 
Stefan  in  his  turn  searched  hers.  They  stood  thus, 
for  several  moments,  the  firelight  on  both  faces. 

Montenegro,  but  Serbia;  Ireland,  but  America. 


276      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Young  creatures  do  not  think  in  terms  of  national- 
ity, yet  these  two  realised  each  other's  strangeness. 
The  ordinary  curiosity  with  which  boy  and  girl  of 
the  same  people  look  at  each  other  was  intensified 
here  by  that  intangible  but  underlying  conscious- 
ness, the  difference  in  race. 

The  kiss  on  her  hand,  however,  in  spite  of  this 
feeling  of  foreignness,  had  evoked  in  Daphne  a 
sense  of  intimacy  with  this  beautiful  boy  that 
months  of  acquaintance  could  not  have  given  her. 
Even  Horace's  love-making,  even  Merton's  lively 
adoration,  had  brought  neither  so  near  as  that  soft 
blurred  touch  on  her  hand. 

With  Stefan,  this  form  of  salutation  had  been 
a  matter  of  education.  Your  Montenegrin,  he  had 
once  told  Lady  Freke,  would  not  kiss  hands  nat- 
urally .  .  .  but  young  officers  were  expected  to  sa- 
lute a  lady  so.  Stefan's  detachment  from  person- 
alities had  prevented  his  thinking  of  this  more  than 
a  young  American  thinks  of  lifting  his  hat.  Boyo- 
vich,  poet  and  rebel,  claimed  for  himself  that  he 
kissed  no  hand  where  a  genuine  affection  or  friend- 
liness did  not  go  with  it.  But  perhaps  Boyovich 
felt  more  of  both  emotions  than  the  younger  and 
colder  man.  At  any  rate,  Boyovich  did  not  ap- 
pear to  let  his  theory  too  much  interfere  with  his 
practice. 

But  what  indeed  would  even  the  volatile  Boyo- 
vich have  said  at  this  moment  if  he  had  beheld  his 
indifferent  young  friend?  For  Stefan,  Stefan  who 
had  never  loved,  Stefan,  who  had  never  turned  so 
much  as  a  softened  gaze  on  any  woman,  now  lifted 


IN  HOLLAND  277 

Daphne's  hand  again,  his  brown  eyes  looking  with 
almost  infantile  surprise  into  her  green-blue  ones 
.  .  .  and  deliberately,  slowly,  kissed  her  hand  a  sec- 
ond time. 

Daphne  drew  her  hand  away  quickly.  She  had 
not  the  courage  to  ask,  "Is  that  a  Montenegrin  cus- 
tom?" but  when  Stefan  said,  in  his  slow  English, 
"Are  you  angry  with  me?"  she  knew  she  was  not. 

For  answer  she  turned  nervously  to  the  table 
with  a  hurried,  "You'll  have  supper  here?  I'm 
sorry  I  can't  call  it  dinner." 

Stefan  had  no  small  change  in  either  compliments 
or  talk.  He  said  now  only  "yes>"  not  even  "thank 
you,"  and  came  toward  the  chair  Daphne  indicated. 
She  took  the  seat  at  the  end  of  the  table,  crossing 
herself  when  she  was  in  her  place.  And  Stefan 
asked,  with  grave  curiosity:  "You  are  Roman 
Catholic?" 

"Yes.     And  you?" 

"I  am  Catholic  also,  but  orthodox." 

"That  is  the  Greek  Church,"  Daphne  said  posi- 
tively. 

"No,  the  real  Catholic  Church,  far  older  than 
the  Latin  branch." 

Daphne  looked  unconvinced,  but  there  was  no 
time  for  argument.  Vrouw  van  Waaldorp  bustled 
in  with  a  steaming  pot  of  chocolate  to  stand  on 
one  "stoof  je,"  and  a  mysterious  dish  of  eggs  and 
potato  and  ham  for  the  other.  A  second  white- 
capped,  smiling  head  appeared  behind,  as  Mijntje, 
the  cook,  brought  in  a  third  "stoofje"  and  a  pile 
of  sliced  bread  for  toasting  thereon.  This  she 


278      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

placed  in  front  of  Stefan,  and  suggested  by  signs 
that  he  make  the  toast.  Daphne,  accustomed  to  the 
readiness  with  which  her  cousins,  in  their  most  up- 
lifted moments,  could  turn  a  hand  to  any  task, 
showed  Stefan  how  to  do  this,  and  was  frankly 
astonished  when  he  shook  his  head. 

"You  don't  like  toast?"  she  asked,  as  the  women 
went  out. 

"O  yes,"  answered  her  guest,  indifferently,  "but 
I've  never  made  it." 

"You  mean  you  won't  try?"  Daphne  hardly  be- 
lieved her  ears. 

"No,  I  don't  understand  these  matters." 

Daphne  meant  to  show  a  proper  American  in- 
dignation, but  found  herself  caught  by  those  seri- 
ous fine  eyes  and  held  silent,  charmed.  It  seemed 
only  natural  to  make  the  toast  herself,  and  to  sup- 
ply her  guest's  needs  with  no  attention  to  her  own. 
He  ate  little.  There  was  no  likeness  to  Merton's 
hearty  appetite  there !  and  equally  unlike  her  cousin, 
he  expressed  no  appreciation  of  anything  he  ate. 
Daphne  thought  of  Merton's,  of  Hazleby's,  noisy 
cheering  approbation  when  toast  was  golden,  or 
salad  just  right.  She  dressed  this  lettuce  herself 
and  enquired  if  it  was  to  Mr.  Dakovich's  liking. 
"Too  much  like  Mayonnaise,"  Stefan  had  said,  cas- 
ually, "I  like  a  very  simple  dressing." 

Yet  neither  Merton  nor  Hazleby  could  have  talked 
as  this  boy  did  ...  of  England,  of  France,  of  his 
own  Serbia  and  Montenegro;  gravely,  finely,  as 
though  he  weighed  every  word,  like  an  old  man,  an 
old  statesman,  Daphne  thought.  Of  France  he  spoke 


IN  HOLLAND  279 

with  the  tenderest  veneration.  "We  love  France!" 
he  offered,  simply.  He  was  non-committal  as  to 
England.  "Continentals  do  not  perhaps  under- 
stand islanders,"  he  said  curiously. 

"You  won't  understand  my  island  then,"  Daphne 
took  him  up,  "Ireland." 

"Yours?    But  you  are  American." 

"No  American  is  only  American,"  she  laughed. 
"Some  of  us  went  over  there  three  hundred  years 
ago  .  .  .  my  mother's  people  did.  Some  of  us  yes- 
terday .  .  .  my  grandfather  emigrated  to  America 
after  the  Irish  Famine.  We're  all  mixed  pickles. 
Lady  Freke  calls  us  the  purest  Mongrels.  Is  that 
all  strange  to  you?" 

"My  family  have  lived  on  one  mountain  for 
twelve  hundred  years,"  Stefan  answered. 

"You  would  not  like  America,  then,"  said 
Daphne,  smiling. 

"I  never  thought  till  this  evening  that  I  should," 
he  said  with  calm  directness.  "Now  I  must  see  it, 
see  them  both,  America  and  Ireland." 

Daphne  felt  the  colour  rising  in  her  face.  "You 
may  like  Ireland,"  she  stammered  a  little.  "Lady 
Freke  says  that  the  Irish  and  the  Serbians  are 
alike." 

"Yes,  I  know."  Stefan  looked  at  her  earnestly. 
"I  am  now  very  happy  to  believe  it."  This  made 
Daphne  flush  again.  "And  Mr.  Dyfed  .  .  .  you 
know  him,  Mademoiselle  ?  he  says  the  mountains  of 
Ireland  are  like  my  country." 

After   supper   Daphne   showed  him  the  village 


280      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

...  in  which  he  took  not  the  slightest  interest. 
Yet  it  was  beautiful  in  the  moonlight  .  .  .  the  long 
tree-bordered  roads,  one  on  each  side  of  the  broad 
stream,  a  single  bridge  connecting  them.  The  com- 
fortable small  houses,  a  "sloot"  or  little  ditch  of 
pure  water,  running  by  so  many  gardens,  through 
so  many  fields;  and  over  all  the  perfect  luminous 
arch  of  the  Holland  sky. 

But  his  eyes  never  once  left  Daphne's  face.  He 
asked  her  a  thousand  questions,  simply,  earnestly,  as 
a  child  might,  with  the  child's  calm  insistence.  And 
Daphne  in  turn  found  herself  enquiring  as  minutely 
into  his  life  and  thoughts.  Always  the  feeling  grew 
in  her  that  he  needed  care  .  .  .  this  confident  tall 
officer;  that  for  all  his  superbly  accepting  life  and 
service  "so  as  a  king,"  he  was  but  a  little  boy. 

The  lights  had  long  since  disappeared  in  the  vil- 
lage. Now  they  went  out  one  by  one  in  the  inrc 
.  .  .  only  one  burned,  from  a  "zaal"  window.  So 
Daphne  decided  against  a  longer  stroll.  Coming 
in,  fresh  and  rosy  from  the  cold  night  air,  they 
found  that  the  Vrouw  had  left  out  a  jug  of  milk  and 
a  honey  cake.  Daphne  rose  to  say  good  night 
when  they  had  eaten,  but  Stefan,  lighting  a  ciga- 
rette, said,  without  a  "by  your  leave,"  "No.  Stay 
till  I  have  smoked  this." 

Daphne  looked  at  him  quizzically.  He  was  cer- 
tainly a  new  experience.  And  he  as  unquestionably 
found  her  so.  In  spite  of  his  assured  manner,  his 
tranquil  giving  of  orders,  he  turned  such  touchingly 
confident  and  beautiful  eyes  upon  her  as  almost  to 
dazzle  her.  He  walked  about  the  room,  talking 


IN  HOLLAND  281 

or  silent.  When  she  spoke  he  stood  above  her,  so 
tall  a  figure!  or  sat  eagerly  close  by,  bringing  that 
bewildering  face  near  hers.  It  was  all  a  surprising 
sensation  for  the  would-be  nun. 

But  when  the  cigarette  was  finished  she  rose 
firmly. 

"Not  one  more?"  he  pleaded,  taking  out  a  fresh 
cigarette. 

"No,  Monsieur,  not  half  one,  nor  quarter.  But 
tell  me  .  .  .  you  are  leaving  early  tomorrow?" 

"At  nine.  I  have  business  at  the  Hague.  And  in 
the  evening  I  cross  to  London." 

Daphne  was  surprised.  "Why  didn't  you  tell 
me?"  but  she  laughed  her  own  answer.  "We've 
talked  too  much  to  say  anything!  How  long  shall 
you  be  in  England?" 

"Only  twenty-four  hours.  I  have  a  message  for 
Madame  .  .  .  the  Lady  of  the  Pond  House." 

"For  Crystal?    For  Mrs.  McClinton?" 

"Yes,  from  my  friend  Captain  Boyovich.  He 
saw  her  once." 

"Only  once?"  Daphne  was  frankly  curious. 
"Yet  you  must  take  all  that  time,  when  you  are 
hurrying  back  to  Serbia,  for  a  message  to  Crystal?" 

"I  think  he  loves  her,"  said  Stefan  simply. 

Daphne  looked  at  him  incredulously.  "Loves 
her?  When  he  has  seen  her  only  once?" 

"Why  not?  He  is  a  poet.  And  Madame  is 
beautiful." 

"O  she's  more  than  that,"  Daphne  cried.  "She's 
an  angel  of  goodness.  But  .  .  .  you  must  know  a 
person  .  .  .  you  can't  fall  in  love  in  one  day!" 


282      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"I  can."  The  boy  regarded  her  with  the  same 
babyish  surprise  he  had  shown  when  he  had  kissed 
her  hand.  "I  have  not  had  a  day  yet."  He  turned 
his  wrist  to  see  the  watch  there.  "I  have  known 
you  three  hours,  Mademoiselle,  and  I  love  you.  I 
have  never  loved  any  woman  before,  except  my 
sisters  and  the  new  'Majka/  Lady  Freke." 

Daphne  was  by  the  door.  He  had  followed,  and 
stood  looking  down  at  her.  Amazement  was  her 
main  sensation,  and  a  curious  feeling  that  a  gift 
of  astonishing  value  and  loveliness  was  being  hand- 
ed to  her.  She  had  seen  the  eyes  of  two  men  re- 
cently in  a  similar  moment  .  .  .  passion  in  Hor- 
ace's, devouring  adoration  in  Merton's  .  .  .  but  in 
Stefan's  something  different  ...  a  sort  of  illumi- 
nated happiness  and  candour.  She  could  no  more 
have  hurt  him  that  moment  than  she  could  have 
struck  a  child. 

"You  extraordinary  boy!"  she  said  at  last.  "I 
feel  like  your  mother." 

"Yes,  I  feel  too  that  you  are  partly  my  mother," 
Stefan  said  gravely.  "You  are  not  annoyed 
with  me?" 

"Annoyed!"  Daphne  smiled.  "No.  As- 
tounded !" 

"Will  you  write  to  me?"  Stefan  pursued,  his 
eyes  never  leaving  her  face. 

"Yes  ...  but  I  write  stupid  letters." 

"I  shall  not  care  ...  if  you  will  write  .  .  . 
every  day?" 

"Every  week,"  amended  Daphne. 

"Shall  I  send  you  my  picture?"  the  "extraordi- 


IN  HOLLAND  283 

nary  boy"  went  on.  "I  am  afraid  you  will  not  re- 
member me  without  it."  He  did  not  ask  for  hers 
.  .  .  but,  still  studying  her  closely,  he  explained, 
"I  do  not  need  a  picture  of  you.  I  shall  not  forget 
your  face,  living  or  dying." 

Dying  .  .  .  Daphne  realised  to  what  he  was  re- 
turning. He  had  told  her  what  new  dangers  threat- 
ened his  exhausted  country. 

"You  must  live,  not  die,"  she  said  with  the  clear- 
voiced  authority  one  shows  only  to  the  best  be- 
loved. 

"I  do  not  think  I  can  die  now  .  .  .  now  that  I 
have  seen  you,"  Stefan  answered. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Daphne  said 
hastily,  "The  poor  Vrouw !  I  didn't  think  she  would 
wait  up  for  us." 

"Send  her  away,"  commanded  Stefan. 

"I  shall  send  you  away,"  laughed  the  girl.  "Up- 
stairs to  bed,  sir!  Good  night." 

Stefan  drew  her  hand  to  his  lips,  looking  at  her 
as  he  did  so.  He  held  the  hand  there  an  appreciable 
moment. 

"Good  night!"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

SERBIA  IN  LOVE 

NEXT  morning  Daphne  gave  him  his  breakfast. 
With  the  Vrouw  and  Mijntje,  delightedly  voluble, 
hovering  about  them,  they  had  little  chance  for  more 
than  the  briefest  sentences. 

It  was  a  shimmering  opalescent  morning,  such 
as  only  the  low  lying  country  can  offer,  where  the 
eternal  mists  drift  from  the  river  and  the  little 
"sloots."  Frosty  sunlight  glinted  on  the  stream 
outside  the  "zaal"  windows,  and  was  in  turn  re- 
flected dancingly  on  the  pale  walls.  In  this  early 
light  the  young  Montenegrin  was  more  freshly 
handsome  than  ever.  "It  is  a  mooi  man!"  the 
Vrouw  whispered  whenever  she  could  get  a  word 
to  Daphne  .  .  .  "Oh,  zoo  mooi!"  ("Ob,  so  good 
looking!") 

When  they  were  left  alone  for  a  few  moments, 
Stefan  smiled  at  her  across  the  table.  "What  are 
you  thinking?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  wondering,"  Daphne  replied  frankly, 
"what  you  are  thinking  of  me?" 

"I  cannot  find  the  right  words  to  tell  you,"  said 
Stefan.  "Perhaps  you  will  one  day  learn  Serbian, 
and  then  you  will  understand  me." 

284 


SERBIA  IN  LOVE  285 

"Can  two  people,  speaking  different  languages, 
ever  understand  each  other?"  enquired  the  girl. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Stefan  responded  with  his 
grandest  air.  "I  adore  you.  That  is  all  that  mat- 
ters." 

"You  adore  me,  and  you  don't  even,"  Daphne 
laughed  aloud,  "you  don't  even  know  my  name!" 

"It  is  Mademoiselle  O'Brien!"  said  the  boy  tri- 
umphantly. "I  know  it  from  Lady  Freke's  tele- 
gram: 'Go  to  Rijsdijk.  Enquire  for  my  niece, 
Mademoiselle  O'Brien.  Write  me  news  of  her.  Al- 
ways my  love.  Majka.' '  He  repeated  the  mes- 
sage word  for  word,  and  both  young  creatures 
laughed,  looking  at  each  other  with  unreserved 
pleasure. 

"Mademoiselle  O'Brien,"  went  on  Stefan,  "that 
is,  to  say  it  in  Serbian,  Gospodja  Brienich." 

"And  shall  I  say  'Mr.  O'Dak,'  in  English-Irish?" 
retorted  Daphne. 

"No.  Will  you  say  'Stefan/  if  you  like  that 
name?" 

"I  surely  do,"  Daphne  replied.  "And  my  name 
.  .  .  just  in  case  you  ever  wished  to  know!  is 
Daphne." 

"Daphne!"  and  when  she  had  spelled  it,  he  said 
happily,  "Greek! — I  am  very  glad  it  is  a  name  I 
know"  .  .  .  and  quoted,  carefully, 

"O  sweetly  blooming  Daphne!" 

And  as  the  Vrouw  entered  at  that  instant,  to  say 
that  the  tram  could  be  heard  ...  it  always  whistled 


286      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

upon  approaching  the  village  .  .  .  there  was  no 
time  for  any  but  the  shortest  farewells.  Daphne 
smiled  a  little  wistfully,  as  he  kissed  her  hand  .  .  . 
kissed  it  twice.  He  had  left  no  address,  no  direc- 
tions for  letters,  no  idea  as  to  his  plans ;  it  was  not 
like  an  American  boy.  Yet  with  what  eyes  he 
looked  at  her ! 

The  Vrouw  and  Mijntje  were  waiting  outside 
with  his  bag  near  the  tram's  stopping  place. 

"You  mustn't  be  late,"  Daphne  adjured  him,  for 
he  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  inn,  whither  he 
had  followed  her,  looking  down  at  her  while  the 
tram,  which  had  come  in,  whistled  for  departure. 

"They  will  wait,"  he  said,  as  though  it  were  nat- 
ural for  trams  and  all  else  to  wait  upon  his  con- 
venience. And  added,  with  his  beautiful  eyes  study- 
ing her  keenly,  "I  shall  write  you  all  I  cannot  say. 
I  can  say  only  one  thing  now  ...  I  love  you  .  .  . 
Daphne." 

The  girl  smiled  up  at  him.     "Good-bye,  Stefan !" 

He  stepped  from  the  sheltering  doorway  into 
the  sunlit  road,  and,  drawing  himself  up  all  of  his 
six  feet  two,  saluted  her  formally,  and  walked  to 
the  waiting  tram.  The  few  villagers  hanging  about 
gaped  after  him.  He  had  evidently  forgotten  to 
settle  his  account,  and  now  thrust  some  paper  money 
into  the  Vrouw's  hand,  and  a  florin  into  Mijntje's. 
The  two  women  waved  excitedly  and  called  fare- 
wells to  him,  but  he  did  not  look  back. 

Daphne,  walking  out  to  the  inn  balcony,  leaned 
a  long  time  against  the  rail,  gazing  across  the  river 
and  over  the  bare  trees  toward  Rotterdam,  whither 


SERBIA  IN  LOVE  287 

the  tram  was  taking  him;  thinking  of  what  had 
happened,  and  spellbound  by  the  new  splendour  of 
the  world. 

Lady  Freke  had  the  amusing  sensation  next 
morning  of  seeing  her  son  and  her  adopted  son 
together  at  the  Hostel.  Both  in  khaki,  although 
the  intense  black  collar  of  the  Serbian  uniform  made 
the  face  above  it  more  glowing  than  the  Ameri- 
can's. She  looked  at  them  with  extraordinary 
pleasure,  but  scenting  danger,  for  their  manner,  as 
they  saluted  each  other,  was  not  friendly.  Perhaps 
this  was  because  Merton,  American  fashion,  would 
have  shaken  hands,  but  the  other  was  oblivious.  It 
was  not  his  custom. 

Merton  came  to  announce  his  own  and  Hazleby's 
immediate  departure  for  New  York.  And  to  ask 
how  he  could  see  Xante  Crystal.  Was  she  coming 
up  that  day?  No? 

If  Lady  Freke  set  her  teeth  together,  neither  boy 
saw  it.  To  America,  then  to  Siberia!  both  her 
boys!  But  she  said  gently  to  Stefan,  "And  why 
has  my  adopted  son  come  to  England?" 

"I  carry  a  message  for  Madame,  your  sister," 
the  young  Montenegrin  answered.  "I  must  deliver 
it  in  person." 

Lady  Freke  was  as  surprised  as  Daphne  had 
been. 

"Suppose  we  wire  her  to  come  up  to  town?" 
Merton  suggested.  "We'll  kill  two  birds  with  one 
ninepence." 

But  Stefan  said,  inexplicably,  as  it  seemed,  "No, 


288      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

I  must  deliver  my  message  in  the  Pond  House  gar- 
den, or  in  some  other  equally  beautiful  place." 

Merton  would  have  said,  like  his  English  friends, 
"Tommy  rot!"  but  a  glance  at  the  stranger's  face 
stopped  him. 

"It  is  not  for  myself,"  he  smiled  disarmingly 
at  Merton.  "It  is  for  my  friend  ...  a  solemn 
mission." 

"Sure!"  Merton  answered  cordially.  "I'll  drive 
you  down.  And,  Mater,  you'll  wait  here  for  old 
Hazleby?  Then  tonight  we  can  all  dine  together. 
Haze  and  I  don't  sail  until  tomorrow." 

"You  are  kind,"  said  Stefan,  seeing  that  he  was 
included.  "But  I  must  leave  England  tonight." 

While  Merton  swung  off  to  telegraph  their  com- 
ing to  the  Pond  House,  Lady  Freke  asked  if  Stefan 
had  seen  Daphne?  The  light  in  his  eyes  answered 
and  surprised  her. 

"I  can  never  thank  you,  Majka,"  the  boy  replied, 
after  smiling  at  her  for  a  long  moment.  "I  am  dif- 
ferent from  yesterday,  from  all  other  days.  I  have 
seen  your  niece,  and  I  love  her.  Are  you  pleased?" 

Katty  knew  now  why  she  had  apprehended  dan- 
ger ...  it  was  danger  to  Merton's  happiness. 

"Are  you  sure,  Stefan?  It's  a  serious  business. 
How  about  Daphne?" 

"I  told  her.  She  was  not  angry.  You  are  not, 
Majka?" 

"No,  no,"  his  adopted  majka  answered  hastily, 
and  fell  silent.  How  much  was  it  going  to  hurt 
Merton?  Yet  Daphne  had  told  her,  and  as  she 
knew,  had  told  Merton,  that  she  could  never  marry 


SERBIA  IN  LOVE  289 

a  cousin,  even  if  she  loved  him.  And  she  did  not 
love  Merton  .  .  .  Katty  was  sure  of  that.  She 
looked  again  at  the  radiant  young  strange  figure 
before  her. 

"I  love  you  as  my  own  son,  Stefan,"  she  said 
at  last. 

"Yes,  Majka,  and  because  I  believe  that  I  can 
tell  you  now." 

"And  some  way,  often  when  I  have  thought  of 
you  or  Daphne,  I  have  thought  of  you  together." 

"Is  that  the  reason  you  told  me  to  find  her  in 
Holland?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  responded  Lady  Freke  slowly. 
"Chi  lo  sa?" 

"I  think  we  were  born  the  two  parts  of  one 
whole."  Stefan  put  it  as  much  to  himself  as  to  her. 

"But  when  shall  you  see  her  again?"  said  Katty. 

"Not  for  many  months.  I  have  written  to  her. 
I  was  up  all  night  on  the  boat  to  write  this  letter," 
and  he  drew  it  out  confidingly  as  he  asked,  "Is  that 
her  correct  name?" 

"Heavenly!"  laughed  Lady  Freke,  "to  have  to 
ask  the  aunt-in-law  of  your  beloved  what  her 
name  is!" 

"I  am  fortunate  to  have  a  majka  and  a  wife 
who  love  each  other,"  Stefan  smiled  at  her  adorably. 

"A  wife,  you  infant !  And  this  an  upset  world : 
war  ahead  of  us  all  for  no  one  knows  how  long!" 

"We  marry  early  in  Serbia,"  answered  the  boy, 
"that  there  may  be  children  and  grandchildren  for 
us.  And  Captain  Boyovich  has  told  me  it  will  be 
well  for  me  to  marry  an  American.  And  more  .  .  . 


290      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

the  night  before  I  saw  .  .  .  Daphne  ...  I 
dreamed  that  I  walked  in  Cetinje,  with  a  lady  be- 
side me.  She  was  veiled.  I  thought  it  meant  that 
I  must  marry  a  Turkish  girl.  But  when  I  saw 
your  niece  I  knew  it  was  for  her  I  had  dreamed." 

"Do  dreams  come  true  in  Montenegro?"  teased 
Katty. 

"Of  course!"  Stefan  answered  in  some  surprise. 

Merton  returned,  pulling  on  his  gloves.  "I've 
got  a  car,"  he  said.  "We'll  be  at  the  Pond  House 
in  time  to  feed,  and  back  by  five  o'clock.  Old  Haze 
will  take  you  out  for  lunch,  Mater,  and  I  for 
dinner." 

He  kissed  his  mother  and  started  toward  the 
door. 

Lady  Freke  laid  her  hand  detainingly  on  Stefan's 
arm.  "Do  not  talk  of  Daphne  to  Merton,"  she 
said.  "He  loves  her,  too  .  .  .  and  there  is  no  use 
in  making  him  unhappy." 

"You  are  the  only  one  I  can  speak  with  about 
her,"  Stefan  answered.  "You  and  Boyovich.  Thank 
you  for  all,  Majka.  I  shall  write  you,  as  always. 
And  you  will  explain  me  to  Daphne?"  He  kissed 
her  hand  and  followed  Merton. 

Their  telegram  found  Crystal  in  her  orchard, 
discussing  the  spring  planting  with  Shepherd. 
There  must  be  enough  not  only  for  their  own  needs 
for  the  year,  but  to  supply  the  Hostel. 

"And  if  I  go  to  America,  Shepherd,"  Mrs.  Mc- 
Clinton  said,  "I  shall  leave  it  to  you  to  give  away 
whatever's  most  needed  in  the  village." 

For  she  was  seriously  contemplating  a  year's 


SERBIA  IN  LOVE  291 

residence  at  home  to  enable  her  to  divorce  Horace. 
She  believed  she  could  do  this  on  the  ground  of 
his  desertion,  if  she  remained  there  the  twelve 
months,  and  he  did  not  return  during  that  time. 

She  walked  away  now  from  good  old  Shepherd, 
considering  her  telegram.  Merton  said  that  he 
was  bringing  down  Serbia,  and  hoped  for  a  pigeon 
pie  and  junket,  for  "the  last  luncheon,"  he  said  ir- 
reverently. That  meant  he  was  soon  going  to  leave 
England.  And  having  given  Mrs.  Rumbold  "Mas- 
ter Merton's"  request,  Crystal  went  back  to  her 
garden. 

That  green  shelter  was  still  both  sweetened  and 
embittered  by  its  associations  with  Horace.  He  had 
written  her  desperately  after  Daphne's  disappear- 
ance, throwing  himself  on  her  mercy,  entreating  her 
to  give  him  news  of  the  girl. 

She  had  answered  only:  "I  promised  Daphne 
not  to  let  you  know  her  whereabouts,  and  if  you 
wrote  to  send  you  the  enclosed.  C." 

The  "enclosed,"  which  Daphne  had  asked  Crys- 
tal to  read  and  seal,  was  a  note,  on  the  envelope 
of  which  she  had  written,  "To  be  sent  to  Mr.  Horace 
Dimock,  if  he  tries  to  learn  where  I  am." 

Inside  was  one  sentence :  "I  only  hate  you  now, 
but  if  you  try  to  find  me  I  shall  despise  you. 
Daphne  O'Brien." 

"There's  a  holy  nun  for  you !"  Horace  had  prob- 
ably thought.  But  he  had  not  gone  on,  Crystal 
imagined,  with  his  search.  It  would  have  been 
easy  enough  to  trace  her.  And  very  likely  he  had 


292      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

been  about  to  put  the  matter  into  a  detective's  hands. 
But  he  wrote  now  almost  tenderly  to  Crystal : 

"I  shall  not  pursue  Daphne.  You  may  count  on 
my  hiding  my  wounds  in  dignity  and  silence.  And 
as  we  have  both  suffered,  my  dear  girl,  suppose  we 
agree  to  forgive  and  forget?  I  return  by  this  week's 
steamer  to  Buenos  Aires.  You  can  always  reach  me 
there  by  cable  or  letter.  I  shall  look  upon  it  as  a 
sacred  obligation  to  respond  to  any  call  you  make 
upon  me,  now  or  in  the  future.  We  both  owe  some- 
thing to  the  ideal  days  of  our  past  happiness. 

"HORACE." 

It  was  stupendous,  Crystal  thought ;  but  while  she 
could  smile  at  the  calm  egotism  of  Horace's  as- 
sumptions, she  turned  for  the  first  time  to  the 
thought  of  divorce.  It  was  too  humiliating  to  be 
bound,  even  by  a  merely  legal  and  unpublished  tie. 
She  had  no  so-called  religious  scruples  as  to  divorce 
.  .  .  only  a  nice  woman's  repugnance  to  the  implied 
vulgarity,  an  honest  one's  revolt  against  failing  to 
keep  even  a  one-sided  bargain. 

But  it  was  all  sordid  and  poor  .  .  .  the  gold  of 
affection  turned  to  this  dross.  Crystal  felt  her 
own  self-respect  as  sullied  as  though  she  had  been 
down  into  a  muddy  and  stagnant  back  water,  when 
she  had  thought  to  find  herself  in  the  clean  rolling 
breakers. 

What  could  now  give  back  her  old  sense  of  the 
purity  and  freshness  of  living?  Must  she  wear  down 
this  feeling  of  defilement?  V/^uld  only  time  re- 


SERBIA  IN  LOVE  293 

turn  to  her  that  earlier  pride  of  which  she  was  con- 
scious now  that  it  was  gone? 

Alas!  She  remembered  that  that  very  pride 
had  been  the  result  of  a  man's  love  offered  her  .  .  . 
first  Alexander's,  then  Horace's.  One  isn't  proud  in 
oneself.  One  is  proud  because  one  is  loved.  And 
she  was  forty  ...  a  middle  aged  woman  (Alicia 
would  call  her  elderly),  whom  no  one  would  love 
again. 

There  came  into  her  mind  something  Katty  had 
said:  "The  world  is  to  the  young  in  new  coun- 
tries. In  old  ones  it  is  to  the  old."  Must  she  go 
back  to  the  new  to  put  off  the  last  link  with  youth  ? 
And  then  return  to  the  old  to  lapse  into  elderly  in- 
significance ? 

Crystal  had  never  resented  growing  old  as  Katty 
did  ...  as  Peter  Norton  and  Aileen  and  Meredith 
Dyfed  said  they  did.  Nor  had  she  envied  youth. 
Even  in  the  first  bitterness  of  learning  that  it  was 
Daphne  whom  Horace  had  elected  to  love  in  her 
place,  she  had  not  envied  the  girl  her  smooth  skin, 
her  slenderness  .  .  .  for  what  was  youth  except 
that  ?  But  now  she  did.  Was  it  because  she  longed 
to  see  herself  reflected  once  more  in  a  man's  ador- 
ing eyes?  .  .  .  Shame! 

No,  she  was  on  the  way  to  be,  as  Alicia  said, 
"elderly,"  like  some  of  her  Yonkers  friends.  She 
smiled  a  little  ruefully,  thinking  what  those  ladies 
would  say  to  each  other  if  they  knew  that  "Mrs. 
McClinton,  whom  I  actually  once  visited,  wanted  to 
be  ...  loved!  at  her  age !" 

A  motor  horn  interrupted  these  reflections,  and 


294      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

she  hurried  toward  the  gate.  The  "Serbia"  Mer- 
ton  was  bringing  .  .  .  would  it  be  the  beautiful 
boy  Stefan,  or  his  tragic  friend,  Captain  Boyovich? 

But  it  was  Stefan's  tall  figure  that  came  up  the 
path  to  meet  her,  saluting  her  with  a  gayer  smile 
than  she  had  thought  his  dark  face  equal  to,  and 
lifting  her  hand  to  his  lips  as  though  she  were  a 
queen. 

Merton  followed,  pulling  off  his  great  coat  to 
throw  his  arms  about  her  as  he  kissed  her  resound- 
ingly. 

It  was  youth  again :  in  its  liveliest  aspect,  on  Mer- 
ton's  part,  in  its  most  romantically  handsome  on 
the  young  Serb's.  The  former  went  at  once  in 
search  of  his  little  cousins,  and  Stefan,  to  her  great 
surprise,  asked  if  he  might  have  a  half  hour  with 
her,  quite  undisturbed? 

"But  luncheon  will  soon  be  ready,"  Crystal  said 
perplexedly. 

"After  that,  of  course.  I  have  a  letter  for  you. 
I  am  to  deliver  it  when  you  are  not  interrupted,  and 
in  the  most  beautiful  place  I  can  find." 

"That  is  like  something  out  of  a  book,"  Crystal 
smiled. 

"It  is  from  a  poet,  Madame,"  answered  her  guest. 

From  Boyovich,  then,  the  guslar,  poor  wild  little 
man !  had  he  written  her  a  poem  ?  He  had  composed 
several  for  Katty.  She  wished  he  had  come  too, 
she  told  Stefan ;  and  Bedelia  and  Bobby,  when  they 
were  seated  at  table,  clamoured  to  know  why  the 
other  officer  was  not  there?  Bedelia  and  Ri-Ri  sat 
one  on  each  side  of  Merton,  while  Bobby  and  Chou- 


SERBIA  IN  LOVE  295 

Chou  divided  Stefan.  It  was  rather  a  surprise  to 
see  how  tender  the  tall,  abstracted  young  foreigner 
was  with  the  small  boys.  It  was  natural  enough 
for  Merton  to  love  children  ...  he  always  had. 
.  .  .  Then  she  remembered  that  Boyovich  had 
seemed  fond  of  them.  "Was  it  a  Serbian  character- 
istic to  love  children?"  she  asked  Stefan. 

"Almost  a  national  impulse,"  said  Stefan,  smiling. 

After  the  meal  Merton  offered  to  give  the  chil- 
dren a  ride  in  his  car. 

"Dakovich  tells  me  he  must  see  you  on  business, 
Tante  Crystal,"  he  said.  "I  can  take  the  kiddies 
off  your  hands  for  an  hour." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  Stefan  said  to  him  in  his 
serious  way.  And  when  the  noisy  load  had  dis- 
appeared, he  repeated  to  Crystal,  "He  is  very  kind 
...  I  think  he  is  a  good  man." 

They  were  walking^  up  the  orchard  path  to  the 
raised  seat  under  the  old  apple  tree.  "I  fancy 
that  it  is  the  most  beautiful  place  at  this  hour,"  said 
his  hostess,  "but  why  are  you  limited  as  to  posi- 
tion?" 

"Because  my  Boyovich,  as  perhaps  you  remem- 
ber, loves  Nature.  He  has  an  idea  that  Nature  and 
Love  are  interchangeable  terms." 

"Yes,"  Crystal  recalled  it.  ...  "He  even  said 
when  he  was  here  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
enjoying  Nature  without  Love,  or  understanding 
Love  without  Nature." 

As  they  seated  themselves,  Stefan  said,  looking 
over  the  grey  and  brown  meadows  toward  the  blue 


296      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Chiltern  Hills,  "I  believe  this  is  as  beautiful  as  he 
himself  would  choose."  .  .  .  And  then,  quite  for- 
mally, "Madame,  I  have  the  honour  to  deliver  this 
letter.  It  is  in  English.  You  must  pardon  the 
errors.  .  .  .  Boyovich  finds  it  difficult  ...  he  had 
to  ask  me  many  words  .  .  .  and  I  am  not  too  good 
myself." 

The  letter  was  addressed  in  an  obviously  un- 
English  hand,  but  in  a  frank,  rather  handsome, 
writing,  "To  the  Lady  at  the  Pond  House,  Oxford- 
shire." 

As  she  opened  it,  Stefan  lighted  a  cigarette  and 
walked  away.  He  did  not  look  at  her,  but  Crystal 
had  the  feeling  he  was  miles  from  there  ...  in 
his  own  country,  with  the  friend  who  here  wrote 
to  her  so  strangely : 

"My  gold  hand,  that  can  do  all  things.  My  gold 
heart,  that  understands  all  things  .  .  .  moriturus 
salutamo!  I  have  seen  you,  Madame,  only  once,  but 
to  a  poet  it  is  given  to  see  more  clearly  than  to  other 
men.  I  cannot  write  your  name.  English  names  are 
impossible  to  us.  But  in  my  heart  your  name  is  the 
Beloved,  the  Beautiful.  I  have  lived  thirty  years, 
and  always  for  my  art  or  my  country.  Until  I  saw 
you  in  your  garden  I  knew  not  Love. 

"Now  I  have  dreamed  that  I  shall  soon  see  Death. 
Perhaps  I  am  fortunate.  Surely  that  man  has  great 
fortune  who  dies  for  his  country,  and  perhaps  you 
would  never  have  bid  me  live  for  Love. 

"Stefan,  my  friend  who  brings  this  to  you,  is  young, 
but  to  be  trusted  in  all  things.  He  is  Montenegrin, 
and  the  other  half  of  my  soul.  I  pray  that  his  for- 


SERBIA  IN  LOVE  297 

tune  will  be  better  than  mine.  If  he  lives  through 
this  time,  I  pray  he  may  marry  a  woman  of  your 
race,  and  have  many  sons  to  help  Serbia.  Our  race 
is  old.  And  for  a  moment,  exhausted.  Yours  is  new 
and  vigorous.  I  commend  him  to  your  gold  heart. 

"With  this  I  send  a  bit  of  rosemary.  In  our  coun- 
try a  bride  wears  rosemary.  Perhaps  you  will  keep 
it  and  say  sometimes,  'This  came  from  Boyovich, 
who  died  for  a  country  that  will  never  die,  and  dying 
he  called  not  only,  'O  Serbia !'  but  'O  Beloved !' 

"I  kiss  your  hand,  my  gold  hand. 

"PAVLO  BOYOVICH." 

Was  it  not  this  she  had  wished  for  even  as  it  was 
on  its  way  to  her? 

She  read  the  letter  again  .  .  .  and  then  again, 
unconscious  that  the  boy  was  observing  her.  .  .  . 
Then  she  leaned  forward,  thinking.  There  was 
neither  address  nor  date  on  the  page.  She  knew 
by  instinct  that  this  was  characteristic  of  Boyovich. 
When  Stefan,  in  his  leisurely  walk  about  the  or- 
chard, came  near  her  again,  she  asked  if  he  knew 
when  the  letter  was  written? 

"Just  four  weeks  ago,"  he  answered.  "I  could 
not  come  sooner." 

"Have  you  heard  from  him  since?"  said  Crystal, 
wishing  to  ask  if  he  still  lived. 

"I  have  heard  nothing."  Stefan  looked  earnestly 
at  her,  as  though  he  awaited  further  questions.  And 
when  she  asked  none,  he  continued, 

"There  is  no  fighting  for  the  moment.  But  we 
know  it  will  soon  begin  again.  And  Boyovich 
thinks  he  will  be  killed." 


298      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Crystal  longed  to  ask  if  he  knew  what  was  in 
the  letter,  but  she  could  not. 

"His  thinking  so  does  not  mean  that  he  will  be," 
she  ventured  finally. 

"A  man  knows  it  in  his  heart  when  he  is  soon 
to  die,"  Stefan  answered  simply. 

"Have  you  the  same  sort  of  a  presentiment?" 
Crystal  demanded. 

"Not  now!"  and  the  young  officer  smiled  down 
on  her  so  radiantly  it  was  almost  as  though  he  told 
her  he  was  loved.  Yet  Katty  had  said,  "If  tragedy 
overhangs  that  boy!"  and  how  much  more  he  was 
marked  for  tragedy  than  his  friend,  irresponsible, 
absurd  Boyovich! 

Crystal  reproached  herself  for  thinking  of  the 
Guslar  as  absurd  ...  in  the  face,  too,  of  his  touch- 
ing letter.  Did  she  not  owe  to  him  that  very  solace 
her  heart  had  cried  out  for  not  three  hours  be- 
fore? "a  man's  love  offered  her?" 

"What  shall  I  say  in  answer  to  my  friend,  if  I 
see  him  again?"  asked  Stefan  gently. 

"Say  .  .  .  say  I  am  honoured  beyond  what  I 
deserve."  Crystal  realised  how  inadequate  this  was. 
.  .  .  "That  is  a  poor  response.  Shall  I  write  to 
him?" 

Stefan  paused  before  speaking.  "It  seems  un- 
gracious to  say  'No,'  "  he  answered  finally.  "But  I 
understand  my  Boyovich.  He  likes,  once  he  has  his 
own  vision  of  anything,  to  keep  it  as  it  is  ...  a 
letter  would  trouble  that  vision.  And  he  would 
have  difficulty  in  comprehending  the  English." 


SERBIA  IN  LOVE  299 

"Then  tell  me  what  you  will  say,  in  any  event?" 
Begged  Crystal. 

"I  shall  say — always  if  I  see  him  again — that 
I  saw  you  in  your  garden,  under  the  brown  trees, 
— in  white,  the  sky  cold  but  blue.  I'll  say  that  you 
read  his  letter  slowly,  and  several  times  .  .  .  and 
that  in  your  eyes  there  were  tears.  That  is  what 
I  shall  say,  Madame." 

"I  can't  make  it  better,"  Crystal  smiled  softly 
at  him.  "I  can  only  wish  him,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, a  happy  life." 

"No.  Wish  him  a  good  death,"  the  young  Mon- 
tenegrin answered  quietly. 

The  two  boys  left  at  three.  As  they  stood  by 
the  car,  buttoning  their  heavy  coats,  for  the  wind 
would  be  against  them,  a  melancholy  procession  ap- 
proached .  .  .  the  four  children,  Bedelia  first, 
draped  in  a  long  black  scarf,  and  carrying  a  little 
box.  The  three  small  boys  followed,  with  lugubri- 
ous strips  of  black  tied  around  their  left  arms. 

"Darlings!"  expostulated  Crystal.  "We  don't 
send  our  soldiers  off  with  gloomy  expressions." 

"It's  not  for  them,"  Bedelia  answered  succinctly. 
"You  can  see  that  we  are  carrying  flags  of  joy  for 
them."  And  indeed  Chou-Chou  was  now  discov- 
ered to  be  bearer  of  a  variety  of  little  Allied  and 
American  flags.  "No.  It's  for  Obadiah." 

"Is  he  dead?"  Crystal  asked,  really  shocked. 

"Oh,  no.  He  is  in  this  box.  But  since  two  real 
live  officers  are  starting  a  new  war,  and  we  are 
sure  they  are  going  to  be  killed  .  .  ." 


300      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"Killed  dead,  Mummie,"  interpolated  Bobby. 
"Nuffing  left  of  vem." 

"Ssh,  Bobby!  And  before  they're  killed,"  con- 
tinued Miss  McClinton,  "I  thought  I  ought  to  give 
them  my  very  bestest  present." 

"Obadiah  is  her  bestest.  But  I  find  that  tres  gen- 
tille  in  Bedil,"  put  in  Ri-Ri  approvingly. 

"You  bet  your  bottom  dollar  it  is !"  agreed  Mer- 
ton.  "You're  a  good  sport,  Bedelia!  You'd  give 
the  gold  filling  out  of  your  teeth  if  you  had  any." 

"My  teeth  are  not  filled,"  said  literal  Chou>Chou, 
"but  I  also  have  a  present"  (producing  with  obvi- 
ous reluctance,  a  toy  pop-gun). 

"And  I!  Mine  is  to  make  them  to  be  gay!"  Ri- 
Ri  here  handed  a  mouth  organ. 

"But  mine  is  to  be  cast  on  a  desert  island  wiv," 
Bobby  said  eagerly.  "If  vey  is  hungry  and  go  fish- 
ing. It's  worms  for  bait.  I  digged  vem  myself." 

"Great  Godfrey!"  ejaculated  Merton,  diving  sud- 
denly behind  his  car. 

As  the  small  Belgians  had  thrust  their  gifts  into 
Merton's  hands,  Bobby  now  insisted  upon  Stefan's 
taking  his  extremely  loathsome  little  handkerchief, 
in  which  he  said  all  of  "nine  dear  little  worms  were 
wiggling." 

"But,  Madame!"  appealed  Stefan. 

"Oh,  it  is  all  right,  Monsieur!"  Ri-Ri  encouraged 
him,  "you  can  easily  divide  the  presents." 

"But  they  can't  divide  Obadiah!"  Crystal  saw 
a  way  out. 

"No,"  said  Bedelia.  "But  they  can  take  turns 
carrying  him.  And  the  one  he  likes  the  most  must 


SERBIA  IN  LOVE  301 

keep  him.  Obadiah  knows  his  own  mind,  Mrs.  Rum- 
bold  says." 

Merton  by  now  had  himself  in  hand,  and  came 
to  the  rescue.  "Of  course,"  he  stated  with  becom- 
ing seriousness,  "both  Mr.  Dakovich  and  I  are  very 
much  obliged.  And  we  accept  with  the  greatest 
pleasure.  But  now  will  you  do  something  more  for 
us?  Will  you  keep  all  the  presents  for  us  till  we 
both  return?" 

"But  you  go  to  be  killed!"  objected  Chou-Chou. 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  in  that  case  we'd  leave  them 
to  you  in  our  wills.  Isn't  that  right,  Dakovich?" 

"That  is  right,"  Stefan  responded,  also  seri- 
ously. 

A  much  relieved  little  group  now  said  the  cheeri- 
est of  farewells.  Merton,  with  a  last  violent  hug, 
releasing  Crystal,  jumped  into  his  seat.  Stefan 
kissed  not  only  Crystal's  hand,  but  Bedelia's,  and 
saluting  all  three  little  boys  in  turn,  followed  Mer- 
ton. The  car  slid  away,  the  most  diabolical  toots 
of  its  strident  horn  proclaiming  the  departure. 

And  Bedelia,  looking  rapturously  into  the  pink 
eyes  of  Obadiah,  said  deeply, 

"It's  almost  as  if  we  had  been  to  a  war,  too!" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  LONG  WAY 

"ARE  you  going  to  stand  by  Serbia,  Peter?" 

Norton  looked  at  Lady  Freke  with  haggard  eyes. 
They  were  lunching  in  a  quiet  little  restaurant  near 
the  Hostel.  Peter  had  come  in  to  her  desk  to  tell 
her  that  they  had  news  of  Alicia  .  .  .  that  she  had 
shell  shock  ...  no  actual  injury  but  a  bad  case  of 
nerves. 

And  because  Peter  himself  looked  like  death, 
Katty  had  insisted  on  his  going  out  to  eat  with  her 
at  this  queer,  sombre  but  blessedly  quiet  little  place. 
Allen  Pearce  had  found  it — and  indeed,  Allen  him- 
self came  in  just  as  they  chose  a  table. 

"Have  your  chop  here  with  us,  Allen,"  Katty  sug- 
gested, but  Allen  rumbled  back,  "I'll  wager  you  and 
Norton  don't  often  have  a  quiet  chat.  Besides,  I'm 
expecting  Meredith  Dyfed  here  directly." 

Norton  murmured,  "Good  boy,  good  boy,  Allen!" 
and  the  painter  left  them. 

"Who  can  say,  Katty?"  Peter  went  on,  answering 
her  question  as  if  there  had  been  no  interruption. 
"You  know  how  strongly  I've  always  felt  about 
Serbia.  They  called  me  in  at  the  War  Office  and 
at  the  Admiralty  to  ask  for  advice  they  never  took, 
on  Serbia  as  on  other  things.  Our  government 

302 


A  LONG  WAY  303 

never  cleared  up  their  own  situation  in  the  Balkans. 
Even  France  seems  to  understand  matters  out  there 
better  than  we.  Yet  any  road  to  the  East  is  our 
business,  not  France's." 

"But  what  will  England  do  about  Fiume?"  Katty 
persisted. 

"My  God !  I  don't  know."  Norton  bent  his  head 
on  his  hand. 

"Eat  your  omelette,  Peter.  It's  Spanish,  the  kind 
you  like.  And  I'll  tell  you  what  Stefan  writes.  He 
says  they  will  not  move  so  long  as  no  hand  is  laid 
on  that  Dalmatian  coast.  But  that,  if  one  inch  of 
that  beloved  soil  is  taken  from  them,  every 
man  in  Serbia  and  Montenegro  will  fight.  Halt, 
maimed, — Stefan  says  the  dead  will  rise  to  fight  be- 
side their  brothers." 

Norton's  eyes  shone  as  they  always  did  when 
they  saw  heroism.  "I  know,  I  know,  Katty.  'The 
country  that  never  dies.' ' 

Here  Meredith  Dyfed  entered,  and,  seeing  them, 
came  to  their  table. 

"Poor  Frank  Morrill  had  his  man  telephone  me 
that  his  wife  died  this  morning,"  he  said. 

"Lady  Morrill  gone!"  Norton  and  Katty  were 
equally  astounded. 

"The  one  person  who  seemed  predestined  to  a" 
long  and  commonplace  existence !"  said  Peter. 

"A  stroke  of  some  sort,"  surmised  Katty.  "Poor 
Francis  Morrill!  It  was  always  a  mismating,  but 
now  he'll  hate  the  ugly  fact  of  death,  and  more 
.  .  .  he'll  reproach  himself,  how  unnecessarily !" 

Peter  and  Dyfed  looked  at  her  with  interest 


304      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

They  were  both  wondering  if  she  realised  that, 
for  Sir  Francis  Morrill,  the  sun  rose  and  set  in 
herself. 

Evidently  not,  for  she  said,  "Shall  I  telephone 
him,  or  only  telegraph?  I  don't  know  him  inti- 
mately as  you  men  do." 

"Yes,  telephone,"  Dyfed  said.  "It  will  be  right 
if  you  do  it.  I  shall  telegraph,  as  will  Norton,  I 
fancy." 

"But  Serbia  ?"  Katty  went  back  to  it  when  Dy- 
fed turned  away.  "Don't  think  me  heartless,  Peter. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  it's  the  great  release 
for  Francis  Morrill." 

"It's  another  break  in  the  circle,"  said  Norton 
gently. 

"You  know  what  Blundell  always  called  her?" 
(For  Katty  knew  he  was  thinking  of  her  own  loss.) 
"  'Our  upholstered  friend.'  Shame  on  me  to  re- 
member it!  But  I've  the  right  to  be  light  minded 
— and  to  you,  my  friend — we  being  the  only  heavy 
hearts." 

"The  individual  sorrow  mustn't  count,  even  now 
.  .  .  not  when  a  whole  nation  can  be  sacrificed." 

"Is  Serbia  to  be  sacrificed?    Speak,  Oracle!" 

"I  was  never  less  oracular,"  Peter  answered  her. 
"I  don't  sleep  o'  nights  for  thinking  of  Serbia.  But 
Western  conditions  have  hypnotised  England. 
Francis  Morrill  has  realised  the  other  side  .  .  .  it's 
part  of  his  bitterness  that  he's  never  been  listened 
to.  He  at  least  has  always  said  that  we  were  in 
a  stupid  way  to  incur  the  undying  resentment  of 
that  little  country." 


A  LONG  WAY  305 

"Undying  resentment  is  Gilbertian — of  a  coun- 
try as  near  dead  as  Serbia  has  been!"  Katty  flamed. 
"O  England!  what  stupidities  are  committed  in  thy 
name!"  She  forgot  poor  Peter's  omelette.  "It's 
on  a  par  with  your  grandly  trying  now  to  make  a 
present  of  Home  Rule  to  Ireland  when  Ireland  has 
already  taken  the  present  with  a  club!" 

"Spare  us,  O  Madame  O'Roland!" 
1  'Tis  your  fault  they've  got  out  of  hand  over 
there,"  Katty  said  gravely.  "  'Tis  a  nasty  busi- 
ness to  have  Ireland  kicking  down  your  back  door, 
all  because  a  big  man  refuses  a  lot  of  gay  boys  the 
right  to  wave  their  own  flag.  Why  haven't  you  let 
them  make  speeches  and  wave  flags  over  there? 
Your  Sinn  Fein  troubles  are  of  your  own  making." 

"Pax,  Katty !  'By  their  blunders  shall  you  know 
them!'" 

"Well,  you  blunder  like  good  sports.  Even  our 
German  friends  recognised  that,"  said  Katty;  and 
repeated  a  story  current  during  the  war,  but,  curi- 
ously, unknown  to  Peter  ...  the  German  officer's 
speech  to  the  Englishman.  "You'll  always  be  fools 
.  .  .  but  we'll  never  be  gentlemen !" 

"What  can  an  Irishman  offer  an  Englishman  to 
match  that?"  laughed  Peter,  as  he  walked  along 
after  luncheon  with  her. 

"  'Sure,  you'll  always  be  gentlemen,  of  a  sort!' ' 
retorted  Lady  Freke.     "  'God  help  you  .  .  .  and 
us!'     That's  what  he  can  offer." 

Norton  went  a  long  way  with  her.  He  was 
restless  and  very  pale. 


306      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"It  is  curious  to  go  back  to  our  own  small  prob- 
lems," Katty  hazarded,  for  she  knew  he  was  worry- 
ing about  his  only  child.  "After  five  years  of 
world  concerns." 

"Yes,  I'm  thinking  of  Alicia,"  Norton  replied. 
"I  suppose  Lady  Merrill's  going  is  a  tremendous 
shock.  We  thought  we  had  done  with  death." 

"You  mean  Alicia  will  perhaps  refuse  to  come 
home?" 

"Exactly.     She'll  stick  it  out  there  at  any  cost." 

"She's  your  own  child,  Peter." 

Norton  left  her  at  Paddington,  where  she  was 
to  meet  Crystal.  Katty  tried  to  put  him  out  of  her 
mind  as  she  paced  the  platform  waiting  for  Crys- 
tal's train.  He  meant  Ireland  to  her  at  that  mo- 
ment .  .  .  and  Sinn  Fein  had  made  it  hard  for 
our  Home  Ruler  to  think  of  Ireland  with  patience. 
.  .  .  Just  as  the  close  of  the  war  had  made  it  hard 
to  remember  Belgium,  so  now  she  meant  to  ignore 
Ireland.  And  Serbia  .  .  .  that  was  different  .  .  . 
one  wasn't  "fed  up,"  to  quote  her  boys,  with  Ser- 
bia. 

Crystal  asked  her,  almost  as  soon  as  they  reached 
Cadogan  Square,  if  she  really  needed  her  for  a 
while.  "I  think  I  must  go  to  America  for  a  few 
weeks,"  she  said. 

"Must  you,  Crystal?     Business?"  Katty  asked. 

"Not  exactly  .  .  .  but  there  are  things  to  en- 
quire into."  (She  was  going  to  "enquire"  into 
divorcing  Horace!  What  would  Katty  say  to  that?) 
"I  wish  Daphne  were  here,"  she  continued.  "I 


A  LONG  WAY  307 

could  leave  the  kiddies  .  .  .  only  four  now — the 
little  Belgian  boys  and  my  two  .  .  .  with  such  an 
easy  mind." 

"Daphne's  rather  likely  to  return,"  Katty  said. 
"The  Adriatic  situation  may  change  things  in  Ser- 
bia," she  went  on,  the  connection  clearer  to  herself 
than  to  her  sister.  Crystal  did  not  know  that  news 
of  Serbia,  that  is  to  say  of  Stefan,  would  be  easier 
to  obtain  in  England  than  in  Holland. 

But  to  Crystal,  Serbia  meant  Boyovich.  It  was 
a  month  now  since  Stefan  had  brought  her  that  ex- 
traordinary and  lovely  letter  .  .  .  would  she  not 
have  heard  if  he  were  no  longer  living? 

"Poor  Serbia!"  she  said  aloud. 

"Astounding  Serbia!"  Katty  responded.  "Won- 
derful Belgium!  Unhappy  Ireland!" 

"It's  a  descending  scale,  little  sister,"  Crystal 
smiled  at  the  incorrigible  Home  Ruler. 

"In  the  present  estimation,  yes,"  Lady  Freke 
agreed.  "In  my  own  individual  feeling,  no.  I  ad- 
mire the  Belgians.  I  reverence  the  Serbs.  I  wish 
to  be  Irish." 

"And  you  are  American!"  Crystal  took  her  up. 
"And  couldn't  be  anything  else." 

That  evening,  as  they  made  plans  for  the  sum- 
mer (Katty  hoped  to  go  out  to  Belgrade),  Grimmer 
brought  in  a  telegram. 

Katty  read  it  sadly. 

"Stefan's  'angry  gods'  are  surely  frowning,"  she 
said,  as  she  passed  the  telegram  to  Crystal.  "Poor 
Boyovich!" 


308      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Boyovich !  It  had  come,  then.  The  message  was 
from  Daphne,  to  say,  in  the  concise  form  that  for- 
eign telegrams  incline  to,  that  she  was  returning, 
that  she  would  go  to  Crystal,  that  Boyovich  was 
dead. 

Crystal  looked  a  long  time  into  the  fire.  She 
did  not  think  at  first  that  it  was  curious  the  news 
should  have  come  through  Daphne.  Poor  wild, 
brave  guslar!  Stefan  had  told  her  long  ago  that 
he  had  won  five  medals  for  bravery  in  action — that 
when  he  went  into  battle,  that  frail  poet,  playing 
madly  on  his  gusle,  his  company  followed  him  like 
fiends  aroused.  And  perhaps  it  had  happened  thus 
— a  glorious  end  for  the  strange,  rapt,  blue-eyed 
Montenegrin !  Yet  now  there  were  no  battles  .  .  . 
nominally,  at  any  rate,  there  was  peace. 

"Wish  him  a  good  death!"  Stefan  said. 

"And  I  could  wish  him  only  a  happy  life!"  Crys- 
tal spoke  aloud  without  meaning  to. 

Katty  studied  her.  "Tell  me,  if  you  will,  Crys- 
tal," she  said.  "I  knew  when  Stefan  came  to  Eng- 
land solely  to  see  you  that  there  was  something." 

"I  suppose  it  isn't  betraying  a  confidence  now," 
Crystal  answered.  The  "Howard  girls"  had  al- 
ways practised  a  scrupulous  reserve,  even  between 
themselves,  as  to  other  people's  affairs. 

"No.    Tell  me,"  Katty  urged. 

"Captain  Boyovich  wrote  me  a  wonderful  letter," 
Crystal  said.  "Quite  beautiful — to  say  that  he  had 
dreamed  he  would  soon  'see  death.'  And  that  he 
...  it  was  absurd  ...  he  had  never  laid  eyes 


A  LONG  WAY  309 

upon  me  except  that  one  time  when  you  brought 
him  down  to  the  Pond  House  ..." 

"That  he  loved  you?"  Katty  finished  for  her.  "I 
guessed  it.  Did  you  write  him,  Crystal?" 

"No.  Mr.  Dakovich  thought  it  would  disturb  him 
more  than  my  silence." 

"The  poet  in  him!  A  nation  of  poets,"  Katty 
mused.  "And  Boyovich  gone  from  their  number!" 

"The  angry  gods,  indeed!"  Crystal  answered. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

PRIMROSE  TIME 

CRYSTAL  did  not  summon  courage  enough  before 
she  sailed  to  tell  Katty  her  reason  for  going.  It 
would  be  easier  to  write  it  to  her  when  she  knew 
the  divorce  was  possible,  and  then  she  could  tell 
her  the  whole  story  ...  or  let  Daphne  do  so. 

Meanwhile  the  girl  arrived  from  Holland,  so 
soft  a  radiance  in  her  face,  so  deep  a  kindness  in 
her  clear  eyes,  that  Crystal,  meeting  her  at  the 
station,  exclaimed, 

"Daphne,  child!  you're  altered  .  .  .  what  is  it?" 

"It's  not  for  the  worse,  Crystal?" 

"Worse!  a  thousand  times  for  the  better.  Have 
you  found  your  work,  my  dear?" 

"My  real  vocation?  Yes.  And  there's  no  doubt 
of  it  this  time  ...  if  only  I'm  equal  to  it!  O  Crys- 
tal! I've  found  something  so  wonderful,  so  daz- 
zling!" 

Crystal's  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment.  Did 
Daphne  mean  she  had  forgiven  Horace?  But  the 
girl  would  not  be  regarding  her  with  those  limpid 
untroubled  eyes,  if  her  happiness  signified  Crystal's 
suffering. 

"Why  do  you  suppose  I  came  back  to  you,  Crys- 
tal, and  not  to  Katty?" 

310 


PRIMROSE  TIME  311 

"Many  ties  bind  us,  my  child,"  answered  her 
friend,  though  she  meant  only  one:  the  anguish 
Horace  had  caused. 

"And  more  than  ever  now !"  Daphne  had  taken 
the  older  woman's  hand,  and  held  it  against  her 
cheek.  "I  knew  about  Captain  Boyovich,  even 
before  you  did." 

"His  death?  Yes  .  .  .  how  did  you  know  that, 
Daphne?" 

"No,  his  loving  you.  Stefan  told  me.  And  then 
his  death.  Stefan  told  me  both." 

"Stefan!     Then  Stefan  is  your  vocation?" 

"Stefan,  the  friend  of  Boyovich,"  assented 
Daphne,  solemnly.  "And  Boyovich  adored  you, 
you  lovely  Crystal!  And  now  Stefan  adores  me. 
At  least  he  says  he  does.'.' 

"Daphne  O'Brien!  I  don't  know  when  anything 
has  given  me  such  absolute  extraordinary  pleasure! 
You  and  the  beautiful  boy.  .  .  .  Katty's  Ireland 
and  Serbia!  And  you  didn't  write  me!" 

"I  so  wished  to  tell  you,  Crystal!  I  thought  if 
I  didn't  share  the  most  beautiful  thing  that  ever 
happened  to  me  with  you  .  .  .  after  .  .  ." 

"After  the  ugliest,  yes,  I  know,  child."  Crystal 
pressed  her  hand. 

"I  was  going  to  say  the  most  serious,  meaning 
my  coming  out  of  the  convent,  and  the  most  futile, 
my  listening  to  Horace,"  Daphne  changed  this. 

"And  you  would  not  have  come  back  if  Captain 
Boyovich  had  not  been  killed  ?"  Crystal  questioned. 

"O  Crystal,  if  I  had  known  you  needed  me,  I 
would  have  come  back  from  Timbuctoo!  But 


312       WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

you've  never  said  you  did  .  .  .  only,  when  Stefan 
wrote  that  his  hero  was  killed,  I  could  not  keep 
away  from  you,  whom  the  hero  worshipped!  It's 
as  though  Stefan  were  your  brother,  and  Boyovich 
were  mine  ...  is  that  far-fetched,  dearest?" 

"It's  darling  of  you,  far-fetched  or  not.  And, 
as  it  happens,  I  need  you  in  the  most  practical 
fashion.  Will  you  take  charge  of  the  Pond  House 
and  the  children  ...  all  four  of  them,  poor 
Daphne!  and  let  me  go  to  Yonkers?" 

Of  course  Daphne  was  both  willing  and  delighted. 
Crystal  completed  her  arrangements,  "As  if  goin' 
to  them  oncivilised  parts  was  no  more'n  over  Bit- 
turns,"  expostulated  Mrs.  Rumbold  .  .  .  and  left 
the  next  Saturday.  She  wrote  Horace  a  formal 
note  to  say  that  she  was  going  to  New  York  (he 
was  there  at  that  moment,  as  she  knew)  to  set 
the  machinery  in  motion  for  divorce.  She  assumed 
that  he  would  leave  before  her  arrival,  so  that  there 
would  be  no  interference  with  the  grounds  on  which 
she  proposed  securing  the  divorce  .  .  .  desertion 
.  .  .  and  signed  herself  (for  the  first  time  in  their 
relation,  she  thought  cynically)  "Crystal  Howard 
Dimock." 

She  was  fortunate  in  a  quick  crossing.  It  seemed 
no  time  at  all  before  she  wrote  Daphne  that  get- 
ting the  divorce  would  mean  a  fixed  residence  for 
the  plaintiff  .  .  .  herself  ...  in  one  place;  and 
proof  of  one  year's  desertion  on  the  part  of  the 
defendant  .  .  .  Horace  .  .  .  And  that,  alas!  she 
must  go  out  to  Nevada,  as  six  months'  residence 
would  suffice  there. 


PRIMROSE  TIME  313 

Daphne  went  about  in  a  dream.  Nothing  was 
real  to  her  except  the  scant  news  of  Serbia  in  the 
morning  paper.  Not  a  word  from  Stefan.  His 
last  letter  had  been  written  on  the  eve  of  some 
mysterious  departure.  The  news  from  the  Dal- 
matian coast  was  scant  and  incomprehensible.  It 
was  there  that  Boyovich  was  killed. 

"A  great  soul  wasted  in  a  little  cause,"  Stefan  had 
written  in  that  last  letter.  "Yet  my  Boyovich  knew 
that  he  must  soon  fall.  I  shall  not  fall,  my  Daphne. 
Or,  if  you  see  me  fall  in  your  dreams,  be  sure  that  I 
shall  stagger  to  my  feet,  and  at  some  time,  in  some 
manner,  return  to  you !" 

After  that,  silence. 

The  Pond  House  hummed  like  a  hive,  "With 
Daffy-down-Dilly  the  queen  bee!"  said  Bedelia, 
quoting  Merton.  Two  little  McClintons,  two  de 
Wiarts,  Miss  Tuckett,  Mrs.  Rumbold,  Ivy  and  Ada, 
not  to  speak  of  Finn  McCoul,  Alicia  Mooney  and 
Obadiah,  made  a  handful  for  even  the  capable 
Daphne. 

Katty  and  the  Nortons  came  down  once  or  twice. 
Letters  from  Hazleby  and  Alicia  so  openly,  gaily, 
in  love  it  made  the  others  rather  quiet  and  tender. 
Daphne  was  not  envious.  Stefan  would  never  be 
like  Hazleby,  she  said  to  Katty  (the  only  person 
beside  Crystal  and  Merton  who  knew  about  him). 
He  would  never  surround  her  with  those  unceasing 
and  enchanting  attentions  with  which  Hazleby  would 
garland  his  beloved's  way  ...  he  was  the  one  to 


3H      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

be  surrounded.  "In  a  way  I  shall  be  making  up 
to  him  for  what  his  country  has  suffered,"  Daphne 
said.  "I  shall  always  see  in  him  a  great  and  tor- 
tured nation  personified.  .  .  .  His  beauty  will  al- 
ways remind  me  of  a  lovely  country  already  classic 
before  America  was  even  discovered!  And  his 
aloofness  doesn't  mean  that  he  loves  me  less,  but 
his  ideals  more." 

But  sweetly  as  her  thoughts  enabled  her  to  rise 
above  her  present  loneliness,  she  was  thankful  that 
Merton,  poor  Merton,  was  away.  She  had  written 
him  about  Stefan.  .  .  .  He  had  taken  it  as  Merton 
would — very  simply  and  bravely,  wishing  her,  in 
his  answer,  all  that  good  luck  that  no  one  deserved 
as  did  his  dear  Daffy-down-Dilly. 

It  was  late  February  when  a  telegram  announced 
Crystal's  unexpected  return.  Her  trip  to  Nevada 
must  have  been  made  at  a  rate  of  speed  Mrs.  Rum- 
bold,  when  shown  the  map,  and  given  the  number 
of  miles  as  worked  out  by  Bedelia  and  Ri-Ri,  de- 
clared with  a  sniff,  to  be  "that  onlikely  she  was  fair 
ashamed  of  Miss  Bedelia  tryin'  to  take  in  ony  sen- 
sible person."  .  .  .  Even  Miss  Laminda,  with  her 
larger  knowledge  of  the  world,  was  inclined  to  think 
American  distances  overdrawn. 

There  was  just  time  to  give  general  directions 
for  a  swept  and  garnished  house  and  tidy  children, 
and  Daphne  caught  the  only  train  to  town  that 
would  take  her  to  Euston  for  Crystal's  arrival.  As 
she  saw  the  tall  figure  in  the  rough  white  coat  and 
heavy  furs  coming  toward  her,  she  thought  that 


PRIMROSE  TIME  315 

even  the  fatigues  of  a  wintry  Atlantic  crossing  had 
not  affected  her  friend's  serene  beauty. 

The  strained  look  had  gone  from  her  eyes,  and 
when  the  two  were  in  the  taxi  on  their  way  to  Pad- 
dington  Station,  and  all  the  first  questions  had  been 
answered,  Daphne  commented  on  this. 

"My  dear,"  Crystal  smiled  back  at  her,  "I've  come 
to  a  conclusion  not  flattering  to  our  sex.  Any 
woman  looks  haggard  who  isn't  loved.  Any  woman 
loses  that  haggard  look  when  she  thinks  she  is!" 

"And  .  .  .  ?"  Daphne  prompted  her. 

"And  .  .  .  I've  failed  to  get  the  divorce." 

"I'm  trying  to  piece  together  the  two  statements," 
Daphne  said,  when  they  had  transferred  to  the  Ox- 
ford train. 

"Don't  take  either  literally,"  Crystal  replied.  "As 
to  the  second,  I  had  everything  in  order.  Horace's 
desertion  was  easy  to  prove,  as  he  had  not  been  in 
America  for  two  years  until  this  last  time.  But  I 
had  to  go  out  to  Nevada,  and  establish  a  six  months' 
residence  there.  In  New  York  divorce  would  not 
have  been  possible  on  my  terms,  desertion. 

"So  I  put  everything  in  train  out  there  in  Reno. 
And  my  dear,  who  should  walk  into  my  hotel,  just 
three  weeks  ago,  but  .  .  ." 

"Not  Horace?" 

"Horace.  He  had  remained  in  New  York  after 
getting  my  note  that  I  intended  to  divorce  him 
.  .  .  and  had  followed  me  out  to  Nevada  as  soon 
as  he  discovered  that  I  planned  to  arrange  it  out 
there.  It  seems  I  grew  more  valuable  when  there 
was  danger  of  losing  me." 


316      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"Beast!"  said  the  would-be  nun. 

"No,"  Crystal  almost  laughed.  "Only  Horace. 
And,  don't  think  me  too  weak  ...  I  nearly  gave 
in.  Of  course  I  had  no  longer  grounds  for  divorce, 
as  he  had  returned.  And  Daphne — he  is  very  at- 
tractive." 

"As  a  Catholic,  I  should  applaud  your  going  back 
to  him.  As  myself,  knowing  now  what  real  love 
is,  I  should  revolt  in  every  instinct  if  you  did." 

"I  didn't,"  Crystal  said,  a  little  wearily,  as  though 
she  recalled  a  struggle.  "The  wound  to  my  pride 
had  been  too  deep.  But  I  agreed  ...  as  of  course 
I  was  forced  to  do  ...  to  let  the  divorce  proceed- 
ings go  by  default.  I  asked  him  not  to  see  me  again, 
nor  to  write  to  me.  And  he  left  for  New  York 
and  Buenos  Aires  immediately." 

"Did  you  tell  him  about  Captain  Boyovich?" 

"No.  I  knew  poor  Horace  too  well.  The  fact 
that  another  man  had  cared  for  me  would  have  re- 
lighted his  own  flame." 

"When  I  remember  how  fine  and  steadfast  I 
thought  him!"  The  colour  mounted  in  Daphne's 
cheeks. 

"And  I  did  not  tell  him  of  Stefan,"  went  on 
Crystal.  "He  said  (of  course  there  was  nothing 
he  wouldn't  say  to  get  me  back  when  he  found  he 
couldn't)  he  said  his  infatuation  for  you  was 
madness,  and  was  quite  over.  Nevertheless,  if  I  had 
told  him  Stefan  loved  you,  the  'infatuation,'  as  he 
called  it,  would  have  returned.  It  seems  so  easy  to 
read  Horace  now.  I  marvel  at  those  years  in  which 
I  was  blind." 


PRIMROSE  TIME  317 

"And  it's  just  that  has  brought  back  your  beauty, 
Crystal  ?  Not  that  you'd  lost  it,  but  it  was  under  a 
cloud." 

"Partly  that  ...  if  what  I  had  has  come  back! 
partly  the  memory  of  Boyovich, — partly  a  clever 
doctor  I  saw  in  New  York  who  says  my  heart  is 
practically  sound  again,  and  that  there's  no  anaemia. 
But  frankly,  it's  mostly  Horace.  I  don't  want  him. 
Yet  I'm  shamefully  pleased  that  he  wanted  me.  It 
re-establishes  my  self-respect,  I  suppose." 

Daphne  looked  out  at  the  ploughed  fields,  where 
a  light  snow  had  fallen.  Could  self-respect  ever 
bring  back  the  light  to  her  own  eyes  if  she  lost  Ste- 
fan's love? 

Crystal  had  asked  her,  in  the  first  pause  after 
they  left  Euston,  what  she  had  learned  of  Stefan's 
whereabouts,  and  now  went  back  to  this. 

"Has  Katty  tried  for  news  of  the  boy  through 
the  Foreign  Office?" 

"Oh,  yes.  And  Mr.  Norton  and  Mr.  Dyfed  have 
tried,  for  Katty,  of  course  .  .  .  they  don't  know 
about  me !  But  I  am  certain  he  is  alive.  .  .  .  Pris- 
oner, perhaps,  or  wounded.  But  I  shall  hear." 

And  almost  immediately  after  her  faith  was  jus- 
tified. A  telegram  came  from  Paris.  Paris !  Next 
door,  nearly.  "Lieutenant  Stefan  Dakovich  seri- 
ously wounded.  Arduous  journey  via  Scutari,  Me- 
dua,  Brindisi.  Now  convalescing  here.  Unable 
write  yet." 

So  Paris  was  still  caring  for  wounded  Serbian 
officers !  What  was  there  that  France,  with  her  own 


3i8      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

myriads  to  nurse  back  to  life,  had  not  tried  to  do 
for  Serbia? 

Meanwhile  Crystal's  return  released  Daphne  from 
her  duties,  and  the  girl  could  write  unending1  and 
happy  letters  to  her  hero.  Spring  came  ahead  of 
her  time  in  a  lovely  rush  of  bloom  and  soft  air — 
and  Daphne  saw  every  budding  fruit  tree,  every 
shadow  on  the  blue  Chilterns,  with  Stefan's  eyes. 
She  almost  prayed  that  he  would  come  in  primrose 
time.  If  there  is  one  season  lovelier  than  another 
in  Oxfordshire,  she  thought,  it  is  when  those  pale 
gold  flowers  blossom  suddenly,  in  garden  beds  and 
walks,  in  the  woods,  the  very  epitome  of  an  un- 
vexed  spring. 

Crystal  went  about  with  the  old  serenity.  "She 
nearly  had  the  pugnacious  anaemia,"  Bedelia  con- 
fided to  Ri-Ri.  "So  it  would  have  been  awful,  and 
never  any  sliding  off  the  roof  or  pleasant  things 
like  that  for  us."  Ri-Ri  was  being  fitted  for  Hailey- 
bury  School  by  a  special  tutor  ...  a  disabled 
young  officer,  an  old  Haileybury  boy  himself.  Miss 
Tuckett  taught  only  Bedelia,  Bobby  and  Chou-Chou. 
Crystal  was  glad  to  clear  decks,  so  to  speak.  She 
had  invited  Stefan  to  finish  his  convalescence  at 
the  Pond  House,  where  she  and  Daphne  could  care 
for  him.  Katty  had  disposed  of  all  formalities — 
leave  from  the  Serbian  government,  from  the  boy's 
own  Chief,  and  the  rest  of  it. 

So  it  was  an  early  morning  in  March  that  Daphne 
stood  on  the  platform  at  Victoria  station,  expecting 
Stefan's  arrival. 

The  train  drew  in  at  last. 


PRIMROSE  TIME  319 

Daphne  waited  by  the  engine,  looking  down  the 
long  line  of  cars.  Many  figures  in  khaki  stepped  or 
leapt  or  were  helped  from  the  various  exits,  but 
none  tall  enough,  Daphne  said  proudly  to  herself, 
for  her  Stefan.  When  the  train  had  practically 
emptied,  about  mid-way  down  its  length  appeared 
the  tall  figure  she  sought.  Stepping  very  slowly 
to  the  platform,  the  head  high,  looking  eagerly  over 
the  crowd,  the  intense  black  of  the  bit  of  collar  his 
open  great  coat  allowed  to  show,  distinguishing  the 
Serbian  from  the  English  uniform,  came  this  being 
"out  of  romance,"  as  Crystal  had  called  him. 

It  seemed  to  Daphne,  moving  quickly  toward  him, 
that  the  look  in  his  eyes,  as  he  suddenly  found  her, 
paid  for  all  the  harrowing  delay  and  anxiety  of 
those  long  weeks. 

Katty  had  urged  the  invalid's  remaining  a  few 
days  at  Cadogan  Square.  This  fitted  in  well  with 
Stefan's  instructions  from  Belgrade.  He  had  been 
entrusted,  as  knowing  English  conditions,  above 
all  the  English  language,  with  more  than  one  special 
mission.  He  hoped  to  discharge  these  at  once,  and 
then  enjoy  the  absolute  quiet  of  the  Pond  House. 

"It  is  very  wonderful,  Majka,"  he  said,  that  night, 
as  he  entered  the  dining  room  with  Lady  Freke 
and  Daphne,  tall  and  straight  for  all  his  lameness, 
one  arm  still  in  a  sling,  very  pale,  but  resolute  .  .  . 
the  Kossovo  medal  "for  bravery  in  action"  on  his 
breast.  "Wonderful  to  be  here,  in  a  home  like  this, 
with  a  real  mother  and  a  beloved.  Perhaps  I  am 
the  only  one  of  a  thousand  Serbian  officers  who 


320      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

can  say  today,  after  everything-,   'I  am  happy !' ' 

It  was  easy  to  believe,  if  you  saw  only  the  lumi- 
nous eyes  he  turned  from  one  woman  to  the  other, 
thought  Katty.  But  if  you  surprised  him  in  mo- 
ments of  silence  when  he  did  not  feel  himself  un.- 
der  tender  observation,  you  saw  a  bitterness  in  his 
sombre  glance.  Not  physical  suffering,  although 
some  deep  lines  had  been  drawn  in  the  young  face 
(one  of  his  wounds  had  been  very  serious,  a  bullet 
clean  through  the  lung,  just  over  the  heart — and 
there  were  three  others  from  shrapnel,  in  ankle, 
knee  and  left  arm) — but  the  mental  agony  of  dis- 
illusion. 

They  made  him  go  early  to  bed,  although  he  had 
spent  the  day,  after  arriving,  on  the  couch  in  the 
drawing  room,  Daphne's  hand  in  his  .  .  .  and 
Katty  said  something  of  this  bitterness  as  she  and 
Daphne  sat  over  the  fire  alone. 

"He  doesn't  mean  to  talk  of  that  side  of  it,"  the 
girl  answered,  "till  he's  stronger.  He  can  speak 
of  the  war — of  the  butchery,  that  sickening  retreat 
through  the  Albanian  mountains — it's  already  epic 
in  that  country  of  epics  .  .  .  past  and  glorious  his- 
tory .  .  .  but  the  failure  of  the  other  countries  to 
see  Serbia  through  .  .  .  during  the  war  and  since 
.  .  .  that's  what  eats  his  heart  out.  .  .  .  Some  of 
it's  already  years  old  .  .  .  but  the  Serb  memory  is 
long,  I  fear." 

Katty  recalled  Peter  Norton's  white  face  when 
he  said,  "I  can't  sleep  o'  nights  for  thinking  of 
Serbia."  And  dear  Francis  Morrill — had  he  not 


PRIMROSE  TIME  321 

feared  that  his  great  country  would  incur  the  "un- 
dying resentment"  of  that  little  country? 

"No,  don't  let  him  remember  more  than  he  must," 
Katty  said  aloud.  "But  I  don't  need  to  tell  you  how 
to  take  care  of  him." 

"No  woman  need  be  told  that,"  Daphne  inclined 
to  think.  But  she  added,  with  a  little  grin  at  her- 
self, by  the  time  she  had  piloted  him  to  the  Pond 
House,  that  anyone  who  didn't  know  would  soon 
learn  in  this  young  man's  case.  "So  as  a  king!" 
Vrouw  van  Waaldorp  had  described  him;  and  "so 
as  a  king,"  indeed,  he  expected,  and  received,  un- 
ending service. 

"For  a  gentleman  who  says  he  is  a  peasant/* 
Daphne  chaffed  him,  "you  do  an  excellent  imitation 
of  a  prince  ...  a  pampered  prince." 

"You  will  tell  me  where  I  fail,  beloved,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"I  don't  imagine  I  shall,"  the  girl  replied  seri- 
ously. "You  would  not  be  you  if  you  changed." 

They  were  resting  in  the  old  Icknield  Way, 
whither  Mo  Garlick  had  pushed  the  young  officer 
in  a  wheeled  chair. 

The  lovers,  Stefan  leaning  back  comfortably  in 
his  chair,  and  Daphne  sitting  on  the  foot  rest,  were 
looking  over  the  Oxfordshire  fields.  Crystal,  who 
had  come  across  from  the  Pond  House  to  call  Mo, 
stood  a  moment  smiling  down  on  the  delightful  pair. 

"It  is  not  so  easy  for  a  Serb  to  change  as  for 
an  American,"  Daphne  went  on.  "I  shall  do  all 
the  changing!" 

As  Crystal  turned  to  go,  Stefan  appealed  to  her, 


322       WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"Must  she  not  tell  me  where  I  fail?  If  she  will 
not,  will  you?" 

"You  mean,  perhaps,"  she  responded,  "that  you 
would  like  to  have  us  tell  you  when  you  are  not 
like  an  American  boy?" 

"No,"  said  Stefan  concisely. 

"No?"  Crystal  was  a  little  incredulous.  "You 
really  mean  you  do  not  wish  to  resemble  even  the 
best  type  of  the  American  boy?" 

"No,  I  do  not,"  Stefan  declared  gravely. 

"She  means  Merton,"  Daphne  laughed.  "And  she 
can't  understand  any  boy's  not  wishing  to  be  Mer- 
tonised." 

"Even  so,"  Stefan  smiled,  but  insisted,  "even  so 
I  remain  Serb." 

"For  punishment  I  shall  tell  you  what  Merton 
wrote  his  mother  when  she  expressed  enthusiasm 
(unduly,  Merton  may  have  thought),"  Daphne 
said  wickedly,  "about  you  and  some  others.  'Re- 
member, Mater,  your  Serb  may  be  noble,  but  he 
is  not  Western.' '  She  drew  his  hand  against  her 
cheek  to  take  out  the  sting. 

"He  is  right,"  Stefan  agreed.  "But,"  he  paused 
here,  "there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  too  Western." 

"Bravo,  Stefan!"  Crystal  applauded,  "the  hon- 
ours are  with  you." 

"But  Crystal's  heart  is  with  Merton,"  gibed 
Daphne. 

Spring  was  a  whole  month  ahead. 
The  Primrose  Time  Daphne  had  wished  for  was 
certainly  at  her  lover's  feet.     Those  March  morn- 


PRIMROSE  TIME  323 

ings  and  afternoons  were  something  out  of  a  dream 
— shimmering,  lovely;  wild  violets  and  plum  blos- 
soms ;  and  everywhere  the  pale  primroses.  Stefan, 
growing  steadily  stronger,  had  still  something  of 
the  child's  dependence  on  Daphne  and  Crystal,  and 
protested  like  a  child  if  he  were  left  alone  ten  min- 
utes. 

All  Sallum  Prior  participated  in  his  recovery. 
The  village  children  brought  flowers  for  the  "Sir 
Began"  officer — Miss  Laminda  sent  Mary  Mete- 
yard  with  her  black  currant  cordial,  "very  stren- 
thenin'  to  the  lungs."  The  old  men  of  the  village 
sauntered  by  his  wheel  chair  whenever  he  was  seen 
in  the  lane,  pausing  to  ask  the  inevitable,  "Be  ye 
a'coomin'  along,  Sir?"  Bedelia  and  the  small  Bel- 
gians maintained  a  circus  of  performing  animals 
for  him,  in  which  Finn  McCoul  and  Alicia  Mooney 
were  everything  from  trained  elephants  to  Lloyd 
George  and  de  Valera ;  while  Bobby  and  Mr.  Honey 
drew  the  chair,  unsuspecting  the  aid  of  Daphne, 
guiding  it  from  the  back. 

On  one  of  their  walks  they  reached  the  home  of 
Mr.  Honey  himself,  one  of  three  little  houses  under 
a  single  thatched  roof.  And  Bobby,  still  warm  with 
the  joy  of  his  own  recent  experience,  a  meal  with 
his  Weelum  Jawge,  now  suggested  that  what  was 
needed  for  "our  very  own  wounded  officer"  was 
similar  entertainment. 

"But  I  am  not  invited  to  dine  with  your  friend, 
Madame  Honey,"  Stefan  replied  perplexedly. 

"I  can  ask  her  just  like  nuffin  to  bevite  you!" 
Bobby  assured  him.  "And  vey  has  ve  nicest  fings 


324      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

to  eat  at  Mrs.  Honey's.  Doesn't  you,  Weelum 
Jawge  ?" 

Mr.  Honey  said  "Yeh"  doubtfully. 

"Oh !"  Bobby  gave  himself  up  to  retrospect.  .  .  . 
"On  Sundays  vey  have  a  grand  fantastic  dinner! 
meat  every  Sunday!  and  sprouts  and  ve  pudding. 
And  on  Monday  vere's  some  of  ve  meat  left  over, 
and  Mrs.  Honey  warms  it  up,  and  potatoes.  Oh, 
always  potatoes !  and  a  pudding  .  .  .  ve  kind  Mrs. 
Honey  makes  .  .  .  much  nicer  van  ours  .  .  .  dif- 
ferent .  .  .  and"  (a  long  sigh  of  bliss)  "vey  puts 
on  vere  hats  and  goes  out!" 

"Suppose,"  Daphne  advised,  "as  it  might  worry 
Mrs.  Honey  to  have  such  a  badly  wounded  officer 
there,  you  ask  for  some  of  her  flowers  instead." 

They  were  looking  over  the  low  hedge  into  Mrs. 
Honey's  cheerful  patch  of  spring  flowers  and  spring 
vegetables. 

"Goody!  goody!"  shouted  Bobby.  "I'll  ask  her 
will  she  give  him  some  "Wood-lice-bleeding,"  and 
he  was  off  up  the  path. 

"English  names  are  sometimes  curious,"  com- 
mented Stefan,  politely.  "Wood-lice-bleeding?" 

And  Daphne,  who  had  hidden  a  convulsed  face 
behind  the  chair  till  Bobby  was  out  of  hearing, 
gasped,  "No.  It's  'Love-lies-bleeding/  And  not 
in  bloom  for  months  yet!" 

As  Bobby  returned  with  flowers  enough  to  fill  the 
chair,  Stefan  walked  home,  leaning  on  the  back, 
with  the  small  boys  pulling  it,  while  Daphne  rested 
one  hand  on  the  chair,  partly  to  guide  it,  partly  to 
feel  she  was  helping  Stefan. 


PRIMROSE  TIME  325 

"A  very  Car  of  Spring,  drawn  by  Cupids,  and 
attended  by  Angels!"  Lady  Freke  hailed  the  pro- 
cession, meeting  them  in  the  green  lane  between 
blooming  hedges.  She  had  arrived  unexpectedly, 
and  had  walked  over  Bittums  to  find  the  invalid 
and  his  convoy. 

"You  have  news  for  me,"  Stefan  said  at  once. 
He  was  very  pale  after  his  hour's  walk,  and  Daphne 
made  him  rest  again  in  the  chair  while  he  talked. 
The  little  boys  scampered  off,  and  Lady  Freke  and 
Daphne  stood  beside  him. 

"How  did  you  know,  my  boy?"  questioned  Katty. 

"I  dreamed  last  night  I  saw  my  men  riding  in 
the  shadow  of  the  Sokol  Mountain,"  he  said.  "That 
means  I  must  go  back  to  my  regiment." 

"Are  you  strong  enough?"  asked  Katty,  handing 
him  the  telegram  she  had  brought. 

"No,"  Daphne  answered  for  him,  but  she  added 
wistfully,  "he  will  go,  just  the  same." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

DEATH  AND  HAZLEBY  AND  ALICIA 

"  'Different  languages — but  the  same  prayer.  Dif- 
ferent prayers,  but  the  same  God.'  So  we  say  in  our 
country,  Majka,  and  if  sorrow  comes  to  you,  you 
will  remember  that,  un- Western  as  your  son  says  I 
am,  I  can  pray  when  you  are  praying,  even  in  a  dif- 
ferent language,  and  the  same  God  hears  us  both. 
I  kiss  your  hand. 

"Your  adopted  son, 

"STEFAN." 

Katty  handed  this  letter,  when  she  had  read  it, 
to  her  friend,  Francis  Morrill.  He  had  been  having 
tea  with  her,  and  now  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
smoking,  and  studying  his  companion's  face.  She 
was  leaning  on  the  little  tea  table,  whence  Grim- 
mer had  removed  the  tray,  looking  through  the 
long  windows  at  the  golden  sky  over  the  new  green 
of  the  Square. 

In  her  face,  Morrill  thought,  despite  her  years 
(he  knew  she  was  older  than  himself),  astonishing 
gaiety  and  freedom  from  wrinkles.  Yet  perhaps  the 
Past  had  dealt  her  harder  blows  than  anyone  knew. 
And  the  Future  .  .  .  ?  No  mother  of  a  soldier 
son  could  say  even  now  that  Death  would  not  knock 
at  her  door. 

326 


DEATH  AND  HAZLEBY  AND  ALICIA  327 

Death  had  knocked  at  his  own  .  .  .  but  kindly, 
taking  away  with  him  an  intolerable  burden.  But 
whereas  he  could  not  mourn  his  wife,  he  knew, 
from  chance  speeches  of  Lady  Freke's  and  from 
Mrs.  McClinton,  that,  droll  as  it  seemed,  Katty  had 
mourned  all  her  three  husbands.  They  had  been 
not  only  tolerated,  but  deeply  loved. 

And  Katty  was  fond  of  saying:  "No  woman  is 
both  wife  and  mother.  And  I'm  a  born  wife." 

Sir  Francis  sighed,  thinking  a  "born  wife"  must 
be  an  agreeable  asset. 

Yet  Katty's  sons  would  have  done  the  most  de- 
voted mother  credit.  And  her  so-called  adopted 
son,  the  young  Serbian,  plainly  found  in  her  the 
tenderest  mothering.  Was  it  true  that  a  woman 
couldn't  be  wife  and  mother  with  equal  success? 

Thinking  of  Dakovich,  he  re-read  his  letter.  "Is 
this  all?"  he  asked. 

"Yes  .  .  .  don't  you  see?  'Tis  his  way  of  tell- 
ing me  he  knows  something  is  going  to  happen." 

"Something  is  going  to  happen  to  all  of  us,"  said 
Morrill  a  little  impatiently. 

"No,  Francis.  These  mountain  people  think  they 
can  foresee  death.  You  know  how  your  own  High- 
landers claim  a  second  sight.  He  thinks  I'm  going 
to  lose  one  of  my  boys." 

"You're  foolish,  Katty,  now,  with  the  war  an 
old  story.  .  .  .  But  tell  me,  what's  the  latest  bul- 
letin?" . 

"They've  reached  Vladivostock,  my  boys.  But 
letters  take  a  long  time." 

"Where's  Hazleby's  lady  love?" 


328      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK: 

"Alicia  is  still  near  Fiume.  She  refused  to  come 
home  after  her  shell  shock." 

"How  could  Norton  let  her  go  after  the  older 
girl's  death?"  Morrill  wondered. 

"Can  you,  can  anyone,  stop  youth?"  Katty 
flashed  at  him. 

"And  your  sister  and  Miss  O'Brien,  what  are 
their  plans?"  her  visitor  continued. 

"You're  a  dear,  trying  to  distract  me  from  my 
anxiety.  Crystal  has  wonderful  plans  .  .  .  she 
thinks  that  she  will  take  in  a  dozen  children  or  young 
people  each  year  from  abroad — Belgian,  French, 
Italian,  Serbian — pay  all  their  expenses  for  three 
months  and  give  them  a  good  time  and  a  chance 
to  learn  English — a  Rhodes  Scholarship  on  a  tiny 
scale  .  .  ." 

"Stunning!"  Francis  Morrill  applauded  this. 
"And  eminently  practical.  One  step  toward  solving 
the  international  problem." 

Katty's  answer  was  interrupted  by  Grimmer,  who 
came  in  with  a  grave  face. 

"Mrs.  Norton  on  the  telephone,  my  lady,"  he 
said. 

Katty  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and  then  went 
out  quietly.  As  Grimmer  held  the  door  open  for 
her,  Morrill  nodded  to  him  almost  imperceptibly  to 
remain.  When  they  could  hear  Lady  Freke  tele- 
phoning, he  asked,  "Is  something  wrong,  Grim- 
mer?" 

"I  fear  so,  sir.  Mrs.  Norton  sounded  very 
strained,  sir." 

"Thank  you,"  Sir  Francis  said  as  the  giant  butler 


DEATH  AND  HAZLEBY  AND  ALICIA  329 

withdrew.  He  walked  uneasily  up  and  down  the 
room.  If  the  young  Serbian's  words  were  to  be 
verified!  If  Merton  or  Hazleby  were  killed!  But 
a  glance  at  Katty's  face  when  she  returned  told  him 
that  the  worst,  at  any  rate,  had  not  happened. 

"Thank  you  for  waiting,  Francis,"  she  said 
gently.  "I  know  how  natural  is  a  man's  desire  to 
escape  a  scene.  Alicia  has  been  killed." 

After  a  long  pause,  Merrill  said :  "I  am  indeed 
sorry.  Of  all  we  feared,  that,  some  way,  seemed 
the  least  likely.  .  .  .  How  was  it?" 

"A  collision  at  night,"  Katty  answered.  "Her 
ambulance  overturned.  The  child  was  dead  when 
they  picked  her  up.  Poor,  poor  little  girl!  and  my 
poor  Hazleby!" 

"How  did  Mrs.  Norton  seem?"  Morril  enquired. 

"Aileen  is  always  surprising,"  Katty  answered. 
*  'Think  of  the  courage  it  took  to  telephone  her- 
self! I  said,  'What  is  it?  This  is  Lady  Freke.' 
And  she  answered  in  person.  'Yes,  Katty.  You 
will  have  no  daughter-in-law  from  this  house.'  Then 
she  told  me  the  bare  facts  .  .  .  quite  calmly  .  .  . 
and  asked  if  I  would  write  Hazleby.  Telegrams 
are  not  reliable  out  there." 

She  walked  to  the  window. 

"Suppose  I  write  Merton  for  you,"  said  her 
friend,  knowing  how  she  hated  to  write  letters  at 
any  time,  "then  he  must  tell  his  brother  .  .  .  poor 
Merton !" 

"Yes.  And  telegraph  any  way.  Sometimes  a 
wire  goes  through  in  spite  of  restrictions.  And  I 
must  telegraph  Crystal." 


330      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"May  I  come  back  for  you  and  drive  you  over 
to  the  Notions '?"  he  suggested. 

"Yes,  thank  you.  After  dinner?"  He  took  her 
hand  without  saying  anything.  "You  know  Mer- 
ton's  address?"  she  asked.  He  nodded,  pressed 
her  hand  and  went  out. 

"  'Yes,  but  there's  a  decency  to  be  observed! 
quoth  she!'  "  Katty  quoted  to  herself.  .  .  .  "These 
English  observe  the  great  decencies  of  living  and 
dying,  with  no  fuss  for  either.  I've  never  before 
been  able  to  stand  anyone  near  me  when  I  was  in 
sorrow  .  .  .  but  I  really  liked  Francis  Merrill's 
being  here!" 

She  found  the  Nortons  astonishingly  quiet. 

"I  had  no  son  to  give,"  Peter  said.  "I  have  given 
my  daughters." 

And  Aileen,  walking  with  Katty  in  the  moon- 
light up  and  down  that  long  back  garden,  spoke 
tranquilly. 

"Write  Hazleby  that  he  must  give  her  as  freely 
as  I  do.  .  .  .  He  will  love  some  other  girl  when 
this  is  all  over,  but  I  shall  have  no  other  daughter. 
Yet  tell  him,  if  I  had  six,  I  would  give  every  one 
for  England." 

"He  will  not  love  any  other  girl,"  Katty  said. 
"My  boys  are  not  like  me.  I  must  love,  to  go  on 
living.  They  are  like  their  father,  who  loved  only 
once.  Alicia  will  never  die  in  Hazleby's  heart." 

"Then  write  him  that  when  he  comes  home,  he 
and  I  will  look  for  her  grave  together.  And  tell 
him  Peter  and  I  will  love  him  in  Alicia's  place." 


DEATH  AND  HAZLEBY  AND  ALICIA  331 

Katty  could  not  answer. 

The  round  moon  looked  down  at  them  in  that 
London  garden,  over  many  roofs  and  tall  trees.  In 
the  centre  of  the  grass  plot  a  little  fountain  tinkled. 
Their  silken  skirts  rustled  one  against  the  other 
as  they  walked  side  by  side. 

Through  the  study  window,  where  no  one  had 
remembered  to  draw  the  blinds,  they  could  see  the 
green  globe  of  the  reading  lamp,  and  Peter's  fine 
intent  profile  in  the  green  light. 

"Writing,  writing!  The  paper  must  go  on  if  all 
the  daughters  in  the  world  are  dead!"  said  Aileen, 
without  bitterness. 

"A  special  article?"  Katty  asked. 

"Tomorrow's  leader.  It  was  to  have  been  'On 
a  new  Humanity  to  our  old  Enemies.' ' 

Morrill,  who  had  left  her  there  at  nine,  called  for 
her  at  ten.  The  maid  said  only:  "Car  for  Lady 
Freke,"  so  Katty  imagined  he  had  sent  his  man, 
and  did  not  hurry.  But  half  an  hour  later  she  found 
Morrill  himself  waiting  on  the  pavement  for  her. 

"But  this  was  your  evening  to  speak  before  the 
Colonials!"  she  suddenly  remembered,  as  they  en- 
tered the  car. 

"I  called  that  off,"  was  all  he  said. 

"What  goodness  is  left  in  the  world!"  She 
thought  she  was  recalling  Peter's  and  Aileen's  sim- 
ple heroism,  but  Francis  Morrill's  sacrifice  of  a 
great  opportunity  to  enforce  his  views  upon  a  dis- 
tinguished audience  seemed  to  her  one  of  the  most 
generous  things  she  had  ever  encountered. 

She  told  him  all  she  had  learned.     It  appeared 


332      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

that  there  had  been  an  emergency  call,  on  those  sav- 
age hills  above  Cattaro.  Alicia's  the  only  ambu- 
lance, a  clouded  night,  impossible  roads  .  .  .  the 
need  for  great  haste  ...  a  crash.  Was  her  nerve 
shaken  after  that  old  shell  shock?  Her  parents 
thought  this  likely  .  .  .  but  thanked  God  she  was 
going,  and  the  ambulance  empty  .  .  .  not  returning 
with  it  full. 

"Not  many  daughters  have  the  chance  to  die  glor- 
iously like  that!"  Peter  had  said  proudly.  "Sons, 
yes." 

Katty,  remembering  this,  thought  of  her  sons, 
and  was  silent.  And  Morrill,  who  had  neither  sons 
nor  daughters,  was  silent  also. 

When  they  reached  Cadogan  Square,  he  sent  his 
chauffeur  home,  as  he  wished  to  walk.  Before 
Katty  mounted  her  steps,  he  said,  "If  there  should 
be  need  of  anyone,  or  anything,  will  you  call  upon 
me?  Now,  or  whenever  the  need  arises?" 

"You're  thinking  of  Stefan's  letter,"  Katty  an- 
swered. "So  am  I.  I  haven't  second  sight  like  the 
boy,  but  every-day  reasoning  makes  it  likely  the  need 
may  arise." 

"You  will  remember?" 

"Yes,  Francis.  I  won't  thank  you,  but  I  am 
grateful." 

Crystal  came  to  town  next  morning.  It  was  al- 
ways Crystal  who  must  write  the  family  letters,  and 
this  time  of  tragedy  was  no  exception.  When  Katty 
had  told  her  all  she  could,  she  wrote  this  to  the  boys, 
and  then  went  to  the  Nortons'.  From  there  she 


DEATH  AND  HAZLEBY  AND  ALICIA  333 

wrote  again,  and  without  telling  Katty,  telegraphed 
also. 

The  briefest  answer  came  .  .  .  from  Merton 
.  .  .  but  long  after : 

"Thank  you,  dearest  Tante  Crystal,  in  Hazleby's 
name.  He  is  desperately  eager  to  run  every  risk,  and 
there  are  only  too  many  chances.  I  am  with  him  when- 
ever it  is  possible,  so  I  can't  write.  Our  love  to  you* 
to  little  Mater,  to  the  Nortons  an/1  Daphne. 

"MERTON." 

They  expected  no  answer,  but  the  silence  was 
hard  to  bear.  Crystal  had  gone  back  to  the  Pond 
House.  Katty  filled  every  moment  with  her  work 
for  the  Flemings,  and  with  a  new  venture  on  a 
Serbian  Relief  Committee. 

She  walked,  when  she  could  find  time,  in  the  Ken- 
sington Gardens,  or  Hyde  Park,  and  here  Allen 
Pearce  found  her  one  day,  alone,  by  the  Serpentine 
sauntering  slowly,  but  turning  every  now  and  then. 

To  his  surprised  questioning  she  answered:  "I 
am  doing  a  sort  of  mental  review  of  my  blessings ! 
Here  am  I,  Irish  American,  in  the  heart  of  the 
capital  of  England  ...  to  the  north  of  me  the 
wonderful  Nortons;  to  the  west  Meredith  Dyfed;  to 
the  east,  in  Berkeley  Square,  dear  Francis  Morrill; 
to  the  southeast  Horace  Dimock's  hotel,  if  not  Hor- 
ace ;  to  the  south  my  own  Cadogan  Square  ...  to 
the  southwest,  what?" 

"Only  most  of  your  friends,  and  a  modest  land- 
scape painter,"  chuckled  Allen  Pearce.  "How  neat- 
ly America  squares  the  London  circle!" 


334      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"London  is  wonderful,  Allen.  The  centre  of  the 
world.  But  don't  tell  New  York." 

"But  isn't  New  York  the  centre  now?"  rumbled 
Allen  Pearce. 

"In  money,  yes.  Not  in  tradition,"  Lady  Freke 
comforted  him. 

"I  shall  go  to  America  as  soon  as  I'm  free  here. 
I  suppose  half  of  Europe  will  also,"  said  the  painter 
in  his  happy  bass. 

Katty  left  him  reluctantly.  "One  clings  to  every 
moment  in  which  there's  no  grief,"  she  thought, 
walking  rapidly  toward  Cadogan  Square. 

A  boy  was  at  the  door  with  a  telegram.  Seeing  that 
it  was  for  her,  she  went  in  without  knocking,  but 
stood  a  moment  in  the  open  doorway,  gazing  at  the 
sunset  sky,  and  at  the  new  green  of  the  spring  trees. 

The  servants  had  not  heard  her  come  in.  Pie- 
tro,  the  Dalmatian  cook,  was  probably  getting  din- 
ner; Grimmer  reading  his  evening  paper  in  the 
servant's  hall  and  expounding  his  views  to  Lady 
Freke' s  own  maid. 

Katty  heard  herself  saying  "Hazleby !  Hazleby !" 
as  she  opened  the  telegram  and  saw  the  word 
"Vladivostock"  at  the  head.  .  .  . 

"Darling  Mater,"  Merton  had  telegraphed,  "Hazleby 
gone,  splendidly.  Engine  wrong.  Love,  Merton." 

There  was  a  letter  to  come  later:  "You  can  be 
proud  of  him.  He  fell,  terribly  injured.  But  he  lived 
long  enough  for  me  to  reach  him.  His  face  was  not 
hurt,  and  he  said,  'My  love  to  the  Mater,  old  Merton. 
Damn  good  luck  for  me  to  go  this  way!  So  long, 


DEATH  AND  HAZLEBY  AND  ALICIA  335 

dear  old  boy.'  And  it  was  over.  He  had  a  smile. 
You  know  Hazleby's  smile,  Mater.  You  see  we  had 
Xante  Crystal's  telegram  that  Alicia  had  gone  just  a 
week  before. 

"Your  doubly  affectionate  Merton." 

This  was  to  come  weeks  afterward,  but  almost 
the  mother  read  it  now  between  the  lines  of  the 
telegram.  Hazleby ! 

She  looked  again  across  the  Square  to  the  western 
sky,  grown  perceptibly  darker. 

"Hazleby!"  she  said. 

Then  she  put  the  telegram  back  into  the  en- 
velope and  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

RE-ADJUSTMENT 

"The  Great  War  made  Life  of  no  consequence. 
And  now  Time  itself  is  as  unimportant  as  Death," 
wrote  Crystal  to  Katty.  "Is  it  three  weeks  since 
Hazleby  left  us  ...  can  we  say,  like  Mallarme,  'for 
another  star'?  Only  a  star,  someway,  seems  the  fit- 
ting place  for  Hazleby,  as  some  mountain  Valhalla 
for  Stefan.  No,  we  have  had  no  news  of  the  beau- 
tiful boy,  and  of  course  you  haven't,  or  you  would 
have  telegraphed.  Dead  or  a  prisoner?  and  if  a 
prisoner  in  Bolshevist  hands,  perhaps  worse  than  dead. 

"Daphne  is  wonderful,  sustained  by  a  confidence  in 
human  love  marvellous  in  what  Merton  calls  a  'near- 
nun.'  Merton  writes  to  me  every  week,  as  you  know, 
and  I  send  him,  as  always,  long  letters  in  return.  I 
feel  'tis  wrong  to  write  him  so  much  of  Daphne, 
whose  heart  is  full  of  Stefan,  alive  or  dead.  But 
when  could  I  refuse  Merton  anything?  From  the 
moment  you  left  him  with  me,  ten  months  old,  the 
most  engaging  baby!  when  you  and  his  father  spent 
that  year  abroad." 

THUS  Crystal  to  her  sister,  who  had  gone  out  to 
the  Riviera  a  few  days  after  the  news  of  Hazleby's 
death.  She  had  been  asked,  almost  the  day  fol- 
lowing, to  take  charge  of  a  convalescent  home  out 
there  for  officers.  Peter  Norton  had  told  Crystal 

336 


RE-ADJUSTMENT  337 

in  confidence  that  Francis  Merrill  had  engineered 
this.  It  was  exactly  the  thing  for  Katty  ...  no 
nursing,  at  which  she  was  very  bad,  but  presiding 
over  this  enormous  villa  which  she  soon  turned  into 
Cadogan  Square  on  a  huge  scale.  Even  Grimmer 
arrived  to  help.  There  were  scores  of  officers  com- 
ing and  going,  derelicts  of  the  great  war,  "finding 
it  more  like  home  than  their  own  homes,  I'll  war- 
rant!" Peter  Norton  said. 

Merton  was  to  join  her  there  when  he  returned 
from  Vladivostock.  And  meanwhile  she  was  a  lit- 
tle nearer  news  of  Stefan.  Alas!  Stefan's  letter 
to  her  before  Hazleby's  death  was  the  last  word  to 
come  from  him.  Katty's  friends  had  made  every 
effort  to  get  information  .  .  .  the  Serbian  Gov- 
ernment reported  that  Lieutenant  Dakovich  had  been 
sent  on  a  mission  of  great  importance,  and  that 
unfortunately  he  had  not  returned,  nor  had  any 
news  been  received  of  his  whereabouts.  From  pri- 
vate sources  Sir  Francis  Morrill  learned  that  the 
boy  had  been  sent  to  Odessa,  probably  farther,  and 
there  were  rumours  that  he,  and  his  companions, 
had  been  murdered.  This  last  he  now  told  Crystal 
only,  and  she  agreed  that  neither  Katty  nor  Daphne 
should  be  told  till  there  was  further  confirmation. 

Meanwhile  Crystal  had  another  letter  from  Hor- 
ace. She  said  nothing  of  it  to  Daphne  till  the  chil- 
dren were  abed,  and  the  house  was  still.  Daphne 
was  knitting  by  the  fire. 

"I   have   heard    from   Horace,"    began   Crystal, 


338      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

turning  from  her  desk  where  she  had  been  re-read- 
ing the  extraordinary  missive. 

Daphne  looked  up  in  some  alarm. 

"No,  my  child,"  Crystal  smiled  a  little.  "It 
hasn't  upset  me.  Indeed,  I  wonder  that  his  hand- 
writing, which  has  meant  so  much  to  me,  hardly 
raises  a  flutter.  Yet  I'm  still  fond  of  Horace.  My 
indignation  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  I  understand 
him,  that's  all.  'Tout  comprendre  .  .  .  c'est  tout 
pardonner/  I  suppose." 

"What  says  Ananias  ?"  Daphne  enquired. 

"This  time  he  asks  me  to  divorce  him  .  .  .  not 
for  himself,  not  for  me,  not  for  you,  my  dear!  but 
for  a  good,  kind  soul  whom  otherwise  he  has  greatly 
wronged." 

"Crocodile!"  said  Miss  O'Brien. 

"The  good,  kind  soul  was  his  typewriter;  she  is 
now  his  housekeeper.  I  gather  that  she's  pretty, 
and  old  enough  to  know  her  way  about.  But  evi- 
dently she  makes  him  very  comfortable.  And  prob- 
ably will  leave  him  if  he  doesn't  regularise  the  po- 
sition." 

"Smutty  story !"  Daphne  put  in. 

"I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  he  offers  to 
abandon  Miss  Good  Kind  Soul  if  I'll  go  back  to 
him"' 

Crystal  looked  from  the  letter  to  her  companion's 
face,  now  a  white  flame  of  indignation. 

"I'm  only  surprised  that  he  doesn't  try  to  whistle 
us  both  back!  Crystal!  how  can  you  be  so  calm? 
Honestly,  if  that  man  were  within  reach,  and  I  had 
a  gun,  I'd  shoot  him  on  sight!" 


RE-ADJUSTMENT  339 

"And  you  were  once  a  holy  nun !" 

Daphne  laughed  a  little  in  spite  of  herself.  "Not 
quite !  .  .  .  But  you'll  ignore  his  letter,  won't  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Crystal  returned.  "He  wishes 
to  spare  me  a  second  long  trip  out  to  Nevada  .  .  . 
and  says  he  can  send  me  sufficient  proof  of  his 
conjugal  infidelity  ...  I  believe  that's  the  expres- 
sion ...  to  enable  me  to  secure  the  divorce  on 
statutory  grounds  in  New  York.  But  I  can't  touch 
that  sort  of  pitch.  I  can't  defile  myself,  or  the  man 
I  once  loved.  No,  I'll  go  back  to  Nevada,  and  get 
the  divorce  on  the  grounds  of  desertion.  It's  quite 
the  most  decent." 

"When  shall  you  go?" 

"Almost  at  once,"  Crystal  answered.  She  was 
free  for  the  first  time  in  many  months.  Aileen  Nor- 
ton was  taking  on  the  Hostel,  Ri-Ri  was  at  Hailey- 
bury,  Chou-Chou  was  to  return  to  his  family. 

"I  shall  go  with  you,"  Daphne  announced. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  Will  you?  That  would  indeed 
be  a  comfort." 

So  they  closed  the  Pond  House,  and  sailed  for 
New  York.  On  the  way  over  Crystal  wrote  Katty, 
at  last!  a  brief  account  of  her  ill-starred  marriage. 
She  could  do  this  now  without  bitterness.  Indeed, 
she  lamented  a  little  her  own  tameness. 

"Only  nothing  has  mattered,"  she  wrote,  "since  I 
saw  the  first  refugees !  I've  attained  to,  not  Nirvana, 
but  what  is  perhaps  as  soothing  ...  a  sense  of  pro- 
portion. I  was  a  sheep  then.  Horace  was  a  wolf. 


340      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

For  a  while  we  changed,  mentally  anyway.  I  am 
now  not  the  one  or  the  other;  nor  perhaps  is  Horace. 
"Daphne  quotes  a  Serbian  proverb  she  had  from 
Stefan,  'When  wolves  and  sheep  are  brothers,  what 
will  the  wolves  eat?'  But  Horace  will  always  find 
something  to  eat." 

And  so  the  second  journey  to  Nevada.  But  they 
went  by  the  southern  route  and  waited  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, for  a  letter  intercepted  them  there  from 
Merton : 

"Dear  Daffy-down-Dilly :  Do  you  remember  those 
one-sided  men  we  used  to  draw  as  kids,  with  one  arm 
and  one  leg?  Well,  I'm  one  now  .  .  .  one  arm,  I 
mean;  both  legs  remain  to  me.  .  .  .  'Thank  God!' 
says  you,  '  'tis  no  worse !'  'Thank  the  Devil,  or  the 
Bolsheviki,  meme  chose!'  says  I  .  .  .  '  'tis  no  better.' 
Pretty  low  down  to  throw  a  last  stone  at  a  dog  mak- 
ing for  his  kennel  in  the  little  old  U.  S.  Only  Yankee 
Doodle  knows  how  soon  I'll  get  there  now !  Write  me 
lots  of  letters.  "MERTON." 

Crystal  looked  with  tear-filled  eyes  at  Daphne. 
Merton,  her  big,  splendid,  deft,  clever  Merton! 
Maimed  for  life.  "Yet  I'm  glad,  glad,"  she  cried 
out  "It's  as  the  boy  says,  'Thank  God  'tis  no 
worse.'  But  oh  ...  Daphne!" 

"I  know  what  you're  thinking,  Crystal.  Don't 
think  it.  Even  if  Stefan  never  comes  back,  there 
can  be  no  one  else.  I'd  sacrifice  anything  in  the 
world  for  Merton  .  .  .  always,  except  my  love  for 
Stefan." 


RE-ADJUSTMENT  341 

"Yes,  child,  and  I  would  take  nothing  away  from 
Stefan.  Yet  I'd  give  everything  to  Merton.  Mer- 
ton  with  one  arm,  but  plucky!  One  knows  how 
plucky  he'll  be." 

Almost  on  top  of  this  came  a  "wireless"  from 
mid-ocean  saying  Merton  had  sailed  from  Vladivo- 
stock,  and  would  follow  his  letter  in  a  few  days. 
They  therefore  decided  to  postpone  the  Nevada  trip 
till  his  arrival,  and  to  await  him  in  San  Francisco. 

This  extraordinary  town  was  familiar  to  Crystal, 
who  had  spent  a  winter  during  the  war  in  Cali- 
fornia, but  it  was  new  to  Daphne. 

"I  see  what  Stefan  means  by  the  'spirit  of  a 
place,'  "  she  said.  "He  thinks  a  town  or  a  house 
or  even  a  bit  of  meadow  has  a  soul,  as  a  person 
has,  and  that  you  feel  it  as  soon  as  you  enter  there. 
The  spirit  of  San  Francisco  actually  met  us  at  the 
Ferry  landing." 

"And  it's  a  friendly  spirit,"  Crystal  agreed. 

"Friendly!  It's  a  dancing,  keen,  capable,  spirit" 
— the  girl  developed  her  theme.  "Anything  may 
happen  here,  any  vision  come  true." 

"The  nicest  thing  is  going  to  happen  here,"  Crys- 
tal reminded  her.  "Merton's  coming." 

That  wasn't  the  nicest,  but  it  was  very  nice, 
Daphne  thought.  And  when  her  cousin  did  arrive, 
she  realised  afresh  that  if  he  were  not  her  cousin, 
and  if  Stefan  had  never  come  into  her  life,  Merton 
would  certainly  have  charmed  her  tenderest  feel- 
ings. She  and  Crystal,  with  Bobby  and  Bedelia, 
met  him  at  the  dock  when  the  big  transport  came 
slowly  in — the  tall  good  looking  cousin  in  his 


342       WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

American  uniform,  but  with,  alas!  the  empty  sleeve. 
He  had  declined  to  wear  the  artificial  arm  upon 
arriving. 

"I  wanted  you  to  see  me  as  I  am,  hand  made," 
he  put  it  lightly,  but  meant  it  seriously — honest 
Merton !  "I'll  put  on  the  machine  product  when  we 
dress  for  dinner." 

"It  will  be  useful  for  wearing  Obadiah  on,"  said 
Bedelia,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  The  children 
had  been  a  little  shy  with  their  big  cousin. 

"Obadiah!  You  don't  mean  to  say  my  old  friend 
Obadiah  is  still  going  strong?"  Merton  asked  in  the 
most  flattering  way. 

"Yes  .  .  .  here  he  is !"  and  Bedelia  produced  the 
gentleman  in  question  from  her  shoulder,  where  he 
had  been  hidden  by  her  curls.  "I  suppose  you  will 
want  to  take  him  away  now  ?"  She  said  this  bravely. 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  Merton  hastily.  "I 
couldn't  give  him  the  care  he  is  used  to,  and  he 
must  be  pretty  old  for  a  white  rat,  isn't  he?" 

"He's  Anniebiluvium !"     Bobby  interposed. 

"He  means  antediluvian,"  corrected  Bobby's 
older  sister.  "But  he's  really  antebellum."  Bedelia 
now  knew  a  little  Latin,  as  one  may  at  ten.  "I'm 
glad  you  can't  take  him,  because  you  wouldn't  un- 
derstand his  declining  years.  They  have  to  be 
soothed,  you  see.  Especially  after  so  much  travel- 
ling." 

"Tomorrow  is  Decoration  Day,"  said  Crystal. 
"You  can't  report  till  after  that  ?  and  we'll  show  you 
this  wonderful  San  Francisco." 


RE-ADJUSTMENT  343 

His  aunt  and  cousins  were  radiantly  proud  of  him. 
"I  feel  like  kissing  every  doughboy  who  salutes 
you!"  laughed  Daphne. 

The  cousins  had  a  long  talk  that  evening. 

"No  news  of  Dakovich?"  Merton  asked. 

"None." 

"I'll  be  mighty  glad  for  him  if  he  comes  through 
all  right,  you  believe  that,  Daffy?  But  you  can't 
expect  me  to  be  glad  for  myself." 

"If  he  comes  through,  or  if  he  never  comes 
through,"  Daphne  said,  "there  can  never  be  any 
one  for  me  but  Stefan.  You  understand  that,  Mer- 
ton dear?" 

"Yes.  It's  in  the  family.  There  was  only  Alicia 
for  Hazleby ;  only  Stefan  for  you,  only  you  for  me. 
My  father  was  like  that.  And  Mater  says  your 
mother  was,  Aunt  Leonora. ..." 

"No,  she  didn't  care  much  for  my  father," 
Daphne  disagreed. 

"It  wasn't  your  father;  did  you  never  know?  It 
was  Dimock." 

"Dimock  ...  Do  you  mean  Horace  ?" 

"Horace  Dimock  ...  the  bounder  who's  treated 
Tante  Crystal  like  the  hound  he  is." 

"Horace  was  in  love  with  my  mother?  And 
with  Tante  Crystal  ...  and  O  Merton?  It  oughn't 
to  strike  my  f  unnybone,  but  it  does.  He  was  in  love 
with  me !" 

"Of  all  the  infernal  impudence!" 

"Poor  Uncle  Horace!"  Daphne  laughed  uncon- 
trollably. 


344      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"Poor  nothing!  I'll  bash  his  head  in  when  I  see 
him !  poor  Uncle  Horace !" 

"Why  is  it  funny  when  elderly  people  are  in 
love?"  the  girl  asked  when  she  could  speak. 

"It  isn't.     It's  disgraceful,"  the  boy  answered. 

"No,  it's  tragic.  My  poor  little  mother!  That's 
why  she  left  him  my  guardian,  I  suppose.  But  they 
weren't  elderly  then.  She  died  at  thirty.  Merton! 
I'm  nearly  twenty-three  myself.  And  Stefan  is  only 
twenty-two.  Do  you  suppose  he'll  ever  think  of  me 
as  elderly?" 

"Come  to  me  if  he  does.  I'm  nearly  twenty-four. 
You'll  never  be  elderly  to  me,  Daphne !" 

The  next  day,  coming  out  alone  into  the  breezy 
May  sunshine,  Daphne  saw  a  crowd  in  the  street 
and  remembered  that  there  would  be  a  parade  and 
that  some  Czecho-Slovak  wounded  who  had  arrived 
from  Siberia  on  the  same  transport  with  Merton 
were  to  be  in  the  procession. 

A  kind  little  man,  whom  Merton  had  introduced 
to  her  the  night  before  in  the  hotel  lobby,  paused  to 
tell  her  about  it. 

"They'll  come  up  Geary  Street,"  he  said.  "Walk 
along  this  side  of  Union  Square  and  you'll  have  a 
good  view.  The  poor  wounded  chaps  who  are  to 
be  in  the  parade  hoofed  it  clear  across  Siberia,  from 
Kiev." 

"And  reached  Vladivostock  ?"  Daphne  asked. 

"Yes.    Great  business.    There  they  come!" 

American  soldiers  first  and  a  lively  band.  The 
crowd  cheered,  all  the  men  along  the  route  lifting 


RE-ADJUSTMENT  345 

their  hats  as  the  American  flag  swung  by.  Then 
the  wounded  foreign  soldiers  .  .  .  most  of  them  in 
cars.  A  few  afoot  .  .  .  and  midway,  with  a  small 
group  of  officers,  marched  an  unusually  tall  figure, 
in  the  same  uniform,  desperately  shabby  like  the 
rest,  walking  as  though  he  were  indifferent  to  the 
excitement,  and  with  a  slight  limp.  .  .  .  His  head 
was  turned  the  other  way  as  he  passed,  and  his  kepi 
made  him  like  the  others,  except  for  his  height. 

"So  as  a  king !"  came  into  Daphne's  mind,  as  she 
watched  him,  for  he  was  like  Stefan  in  figure,  and 
carried  his  head  more  proudly  than  the  others. 

Daphne  edged  closer  to  the  front  row  of  specta- 
tors. At  that  moment  the  tall  officer  turned  his  head. 

It  was  Stefan. 

The  sun  was  in  his  eyes  so  that  he  could  not  see 
her,  and  although  she  called  his  name,  without  re- 
alising that  she  did  so,  the  music,  of  course,  pre- 
vented his  hearing  her.  But  she  felt  her  arm  seized 
at  that  moment.  Merton,  coming  in  search  of  her, 
had  heard. 

"Merton!  Bless  you  for  coming!  It's  Stefan 
.  .  .  there,  there!  reach  him,  stop  him!" 

"In  the  parade?" 

"Yes,  there!  that  tall  officer!  He's  alive!  O 
Merton!" 

Merton  shaded  his  eyes  and  looked  up  the  street. 
"That  tall  one  in  Czech  uniform?  You're  sure, 
Daphne?" 

"Sure,  oh,  sure!    Hurry,  Merton  dear!" 

They  broke  their  way  through  the  crowd,  people 
giving  way  eagerly  as  soon  as  they  saw  the  officer's 


346      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

uniform  and  the  girl's  radiant  face.  The  procession 
was  swinging  around  the  corner,  and  toward  Mar- 
ket Street.  By  this  time  the  cousins  were  abreast 
of  him,  and  Daphne  could  study  him  with  a  full 
heart  and  brimming  eyes.  She  could  see  only  the 
line  of  his  cheek,  much  thinner  and  sharper.  He 
walked  wearily,  with  a  slight  limp.  The  boy  was 
obviously  older,  but  the  head  always  high. 

"So  as  a  king!"  Daphne  repeated  between  smiles 
and  sobs.  "Merton,  you'll  forgive  me  everything 
when  you  see  him !" 

"I've  seen  him,"  her  cousin  said  grimly,  but  he 
added  generously.  "He's  a  fine  fellow,  Daffy.  He 
must  have  been  through  a  lot.  He  must  have  es- 
caped from  Kiev  and  crossed  Russia.  Holy  smoke ! 
he  must  have  been  on  the  transport  with  me !" 

The  procession  halted  as  it  drew  near  the  main 
artery  of  traffic,  Market  Street,  and  Merton,  bid- 
ding Daphne  wait  a  moment,  stepped  quickly  to 
Stefan's  side.  Stefan  saluted  the  two  bars  on  the 
American  shoulder,  casually,  but  at  Merton's  "Dak- 
ovich,  old  boy!"  he  recognised  him.  "Daphne's 
here!"  Merton  added,  and  Stefan  went  white  under 
his  tan.  He  looked  to  where  Merton  pointed.  The 
eyes  of  the  lovers  met. 

Two  officers  approached,  and  the  older  one  said 
to  Merton.  "He  finds  friends !"  And  to  Stefan  in 
French,  "Make  your  escape,  old  man!  You'll  find 
us  at  the  same  hotel!" 

Stefan  saluted  him  automatically,  and  automatic- 
ally followed  Merton.  Reaching  Daphne  he  had  no 


RE-ADJUSTMENT  347 

words,  but  bent  over  her  hand  as  that  first  time  in 
Rijsdijk.  The  people  about  were  looking  on  sym- 
pathetically, and  a  nervous  middle-aged  man  raised 
a  cheer,  taken  up  by  some  small  boys  and  a  few 
excited  maiden  ladies. 

"You  can  see  she's  found  him  after  all!"  one  of 
them  said  shrilly,  and  Daphne,  who  had  clung  to 
Stefan's  arm  as  she  pushed  a  way  through  the  crowd, 
smiled  up  at  him  repeating,  "After  all!  Stefan, 
after  all!" 

The  boy  had  no  eyes  for  anything  but  her  face. 
Merton  manoeuvred  them  up  Powell  Street  to- 
ward the  hotel. 

"Attention,  Kindergarten!"  he  exclaimed  finally, 
as  a  Geary  Street  car  missed  them  by  a  few  inches. 
"Come  to!  I'm  not  used  to  playing  nursemaid!" 

They  both  smiled  at  him  foolishly. 

"O  Merton !"  Daphne  broke  her  rapturous  silence 
at  last.  "I'm  saying  my  prayers!  God  is  good!" 

"God  is  good,"  repeated  Stefan.  "Comme  je  sid$ 
reconnaissant  f  I  have  spoken  no  English  for  a 
long  time,"  he  said  slowly.  "Forgive  me  if  I  speak 
French  or  Serbian  or  not  at  all !" 

"Forgive  you!  God  forgive  me  for  ever  doubt- 
ing His  goodness !"  breathed  Daphne. 

They  were  mounting  the  hotel  steps.  "Take  him 
up  to  Tante  Crystal,  Daffy,  and  I'll  get  him  a  room 
next  mine,"  Merton  ordered. 

A  sudden  realisation  seemed  to  sweep  over  the 
young  Montenegrin.  He  put  out  his  hand  impul- 
sively. "You  are  the  best  man  in  the  world,"  he 


348      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

said,  and  the  two  shook  hands  silently.  Daphne 
turned  her  head  to  hide  the  tears.  "What  can  I  do 
to  prove  my  gratitude  to  God?"  she  asked  herself. 

They  entered  one  of  the  elevators  as  Merton  left 
them.  Luckily  it  was  empty;  and  the  "boy"  ab- 
sorbed in  his  work.  The  lovers  stood  behind  him, 
Stefan  holding  Daphne's  hand  to  his  lips,  and  mur- 
muring to  her  in  Serbian. 

As  they  stepped  out,  they  found  Crystal  and  the 
children  waiting  to  go  down.  Crystal's  amazement 
was  nothing  to  Bobby's  vociferous  welcome. 

"It's  our  own  officer.  He  isn't  dead  at  all!  he's 
not  dead  even  a  little!  Mummie!  Bedelia!  he's 
came  back !" 

"Bobby  darling!"  Daphne  hugged  the  small  boy. 
"That's  all  I  can  say,  too!  He's  came  back!" 

Stefan  was  kissing  Crystal's  hand  and  the  proud 
Bedelia's,  but  he  held  firmly  to  Daphne  with  his  left 
hand.  They  all  helped  conduct  him  to  Crystal's 
apartment,  Bedelia  going  ahead  capably  with  the 
keys,  Crystal  and  Daphne  each  holding  a  hand,  and 
Bobby  pushing  him  strongly  from  the  back.  In  the 
sitting-room,  with  its  fine  windows  looking  east  and 
south  over  the  sunlit  city  roofs  and  on  to  the  hills 
and  the  bay,  they  forced  him  into  a  great  chair, 
his  black  head  against  the  red  velvet,  making  him 
into  an  old  Italian  portrait,  Crystal  thought.  Bobby 
took  his  cap  reverently,  Crystal  rang  for  coffee,  and 
Bedelia  let  him  hold  Obadiah  for  a  little  while. 
Daphne  sat  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"I  am  clwz  moif     It  is  home  .  .  .  my  home," 


RE-ADJUSTMENT  349 

Stefan  said  glowingly.     "My  friends,  my  beloved !" 

"And  your  Obadiah!"  Bedelia  affirmed,  "if  Mer- 
ton  will  let  you!" 

"Where  is  Merton?"  Crystal  was  heart-sick  a 
moment  for  her  boy. 

"Getting  a  room  for  Stefan  next  his,"  Daphne 
answered.  "But  now  tell  us,  Stefan,  if  you're  a 
little  rested,  how  it's  happened,  how  you  came  to  be 
with  the  Czecho-Slovaks." 

"I  was  prisoner  in  Kiev,"  Stefan  spoke  slowly. 
"My  government  sent  me  to  talk  to  the  Bolsheviki, 
and  they  put  me  in  prison.  Very  bad,  no  food,  no 
fire.  Then  a  girl  helped  us  to  escape,  and  we  walked 
many  days,  in  the  snow.  All  the  Russians  very 
kind  .  .  .  they  are  good  people,  the  Russians.  Only 
now  they  are  all  mad,  peasants,  soldiers,  officials,  all 
mad.  It  is  a  sickness  like  another.  But  they  love 
my  country  .  .  .  and  I  had  much  help.  Fighting, 
of  course.  I  joined  some  Czech  soldiers  when 
my  companion  was  killed  .  .  .  they  gave  me  this 
uniform  .  .  .  and  we  stole  a  train  from  the  Bolshe- 
viki .  .  .  and  travelled  a  long  way.  ...  I  was 
.  .  .  what  you  call  .  .  .  fireman.  I  shovelled 
much  wood  and  coal." 

"You !"  Daphne  laughed  at  him  even  now. 

"I!  Now  do  I  work  like  .  .  .  like  .  .  .  your 
American  boy!"  he  assured  Crystal.  "I  have  for- 
gotten to  talk,  but  I  have  learned  to  work !" 

"O  go  on,  go  on!"  this  breathlessly,  from  Bobby. 

"And  then  at  last  Vladiovostock  .  .  .  and  the 
American  ship  .  .  .  and  a  good  rest  .  .  .  three  weeks 


350      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

I  slept  .  .  .  yes,  beloved !  nearly  always  I  slept !  and 
then  San  Francisco." 

He  looked  around  at  the  little  group. 

"Always  will  San  Francisco  seem  the  most  beau- 
tiful place  in  the  world  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

EXIT  MR.  DIMOCK 

HORACE  DIMOCK  drove  once  more  to  that  com- 
fortable hotel  overlooking  Hyde  Park,  where  even 
in  the  fullest  season  he  could  be  sure  of  his  delight- 
ful rooms. 

He  was  returning,  as  so  often  before,  from  Bue- 
nos Aires.  It  was  six  months  since  his  last  arrival, 
a  year  since  that  other  June  day  return.  He  re- 
called the  Norton's  dinner  that  night  ...  his  visit 
to  the  convent,  and  his  later  visit  to  declare  his 
passion  to  Daphne. 

Piquant,  that!  A  passion  for  a  holy  nun!  It 
had  been  an  original  moment.  He  did  not  often 
think  of  Daphne,  now-a-days,  but  he  often  remem- 
bered his  own  sensations,  when,  at  forty-six,  he  had 
found  himelf  capable  of  falling  in  love.  Not  many 
men  could  say  that. 

He  had  not  been  in  love  since.  The  little  lady 
in  Buenos  Aires,  whom  he  had,  for  a  while,  thought 
of  marrying  .  .  .  she  had  been  very  set  on  it  ...  he 
had  soon  tired  of;  she  had  made  too  many  scenes. 
There  had  been  no  one  else,  unfortunately.  Horace 
always  prided  himself  on  bringing  real  sentiment 
into  his  affairs.  It  was  one  of  the  things  that  kept 
him  young. 


352      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

If  he  regretted  anything  in  his  past,  it  was  perhaps 
the  severing  of  relations  with  Crystal.  It  would 
be  almost  worth  while  going  back  to  her.  Was 
she  still  as  beautiful?  That  type  wore  well.  She 
would  always  be  the  ideal  housekeeper,  thoroughly 
understanding  how  to  make  a  man  comfortable. 

Still,  one  wanted  more  than  that.  One  wanted 
intellectual  companionship.  Crystal  was  intelligent, 
her  letters  extraordinary.  He  had  certainly  missed 
her  letters,  but  she  was  herself  a  bit  dull  at  times. 
She  never  "sparkled"  as  Katty  did. 

He  must  look  up  Katty  Freke  ...  if  only  to  see 
what  she  was  like  as  a  widow  the  third  time.  By 
Jove !  she  would  carry  it  off !  Absurd  as  it  was  to 
bury  three  husbands,  she'd  probably  carry  it  off 
amazingly.  He  had  not  cared  much  for  Katty  in 
the  old  days.  .  .  .  Very  likely,  he  said  handsomely 
to  himself,  it  was  his  own  immaturity  that  kept  him 
from  appreciating  her.  The  normal  man,  of  course, 
admired  a  lovely  face,  a  gentle  manner  .  .  .  and, 
above  all,  deference  to  his  opinions.  Katty  Freke 
had  never,  in  her  life,  shown  any  human  being  a  mo- 
ment's deference  .  .  .  unless,  perhaps,  the  late  Chief 
of  the  Irish  Party  .  .  .  but  after  all,  that  made  for 
interest  in  conversation.  And  she  had  an  astound- 
ing facility  in  acquiring  clever  and  influential 
friends.  She  must  have  been  a  very  useful  wife 
to  poor  Blundell  Freke. 

He  was  arriving  in  the  afternoon  this  time.  .  .  . 
Town  looked  much  as  usual.  The  crowds  of  men  in 
khaki  had  gone.  The  streets  were  full  and  gay  .  .  . 
London  nearly  normal  again. 


EXIT  MR.  DIMOCK  353 

Coming  to  his  hotel,  he  telephoned  Cadogan 
Square.  Good  old  Grimmer  answered,  "No,  her 
ladyship  was  not  in;  she  would  be  dining  at  home, 
however,  quite  alone.  Very  few  dinners  these  days, 
sir.  We  have  only  returned  this  fortnight  from 
the  Riviera  .  .  .  very  fine  work  we  have  done  out 
there,  sir.  But  her  ladyship  needed  a  holiday,  espe- 
cially in  the  hot  weather.  After  nearly  six  years 
without  a  day's  rest,  as  you  might  say,  sir." 

Horace  had  heard  in  a  Buenos  Aires  paper  of 
Lady  Freke's  Convalescent  Home.  Kind  of  Katty, 
that,  when  interest  in  war  work  had  naturally  lapsed 
fof  most  people. 

"Suppose  he,  Grimmer,  telephone  to  Mr.  Dimock 
shortly?  He  knew  her  ladyship  would  appreciate 
Mr.  Dimock's  company  to  dinner." 

In  half  an  hour  Katty  telephoned  herself.  He 
must,  of  course,  come  to  dinner,  or  what  passed  for 
that  long  lost  meal.  At  seven  thirty  ?  They'd  have 
a  good  chance  to  talk  before  Meredith  Dyfed  looked 
in  at  ten. 

Horace  presented  himself  with  agreeable  antici- 
pations at  the  familiar  door.  Once  more  there 
were  flower-filled  window  boxes  in  the  Square,  and 
few  houses  needed  paint.  At  Lady  Freke's  the 
brass  of  knocker  and  doorknobs  shone  resplendently 
as  ever,  and  Grimmer's  benignity  was  almost  ponti- 
fical as  he  opened  to  the  returning  friend  of  the 
family. 

Upstairs  the  long  windows  were  swung  back  to 


354      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

the  sunset  and  the  jewel-like  blue  drawing-room  was 
filled  with  Katty's  blush  roses. 

Katty  herself,  coming  in  a  moment  later,  was  in 
pearly  grey,  with  a  wide  black  belt  like  a  girl's  and 
a^  black  band  around  the  foolish  white  hair.  If 
her  manner  lacked  the  warmth  of  their  last  inter- 
view, a  year  earlier,  it  was  nevertheless  charming, 
but  he  realised  that  whereas  she  had  openly  found 
him  handsome  in  his  last  visit,  his  grey  hair  and 
increased  bulk  were  a  surprise  to  her. 

"I  must  thank  you,"  she  said,  hurriedly  for  Katty. 
"You  wrote  me  very  kind  letters  on  two  occasions." 
(Horace  knew  she  meant  at  the  time  of  Sir  Blun- 
dell's  death,  and  of  Hazleby's.)  "You  weren't 
surprised  that  I  never  answered." 

"No;  and  of  course  I  received  your  formal  card 
of  thanks,  both  times." 

She  had  walked  with  him  to  the  window. 

"The  world  has  used  you  very  well,  my  dear  girl, 
even  the  wicked  world  of  the  past  few  years." 

"Who  else  would  call  me  his  dear  girl?  I  was 
47  in  April." 

"And  I  in  May,"  Dimock  admitted,  as  they  went 
in  to  dinner. 

"No  footman,  you  see,"  his  hostess  said.  "Grim- 
mer does  everything  in  the  house,"  she  smiled  at  the 
big  butler,  "except  my  hair  and  the  cooking." 

"O  my  lady !"  deprecated  the  large  one. 

"Well,  nearly  everything.  But  tell  me  your  plans 
now,  or  better  still,  your  ideas." 

"My  ideas  must  focus  on  one  thing,"  Horace  re- 
plied genially.  "Your  astonishing  self.  I  feel  now, 


EXIT  MR.  DIMOCK  355 

seeing  you  like  this,  in  this  delicious  house,  that  it's 
all  I  came  for." 

"You've  not  outgrown  the  habit  of  pretty 
speeches,  Horace,"  Lady  Freke  encouraged  him. 

"I've  outgrown  many  other  things,  however." 
He  was  longing  to  say  Daphne,  or  even  Crystal,  but 
Grimmer's  presence  prevented.  "What,  on  your 
side,  have  you  outgrown ;  Irish  politics  ?" 

"Ah,  that's  a  black,  black  door.  I'll  not  go  that 
way.  Since  the  Sinn  Fein  business,  I've  turned  my 
eyes  from  Irish-English  relations."  • 

"From  Ireland,  too?"  Horace  was  rather  pleased. 

"Never  from  Ireland.  Never  from  England. 
Apart,  they  are  the  finest  things  in  this  world.  To- 
gether, ugh!  impossible.  Ireland,  that  should  be 
all  beauty,  wit  and  pathos,  the  poetry  of  this  life, 
is,  for  the  moment  anyway,  a  spiteful  child.  Eng- 
land, that  has  been  so  sane  and  sound  in  all  other 
relations,  has  paranoia  when  it  comes  to  Ireland  .  .  . 
absolute  failure  of  the  brain  to  act  normally."  She 
paused  a  moment  .  .  .  then  went  on  with  an  effort. 
"And  when,  between  them,  they  murdered  John 
Redmond  .  .  .  for  it  was  nothing  else  ...  I  felt, 
as  I  said  ...  a  black  door  had  closed  for  me.  I 
can  never  go  back." 

Horace  was  touched  more  than  he  would  have 
thought  possible  by  anything  relating  to  the  Irish 
Question. 

"Our  own  country  must  have  given  you  a  brighter 
outlook,"  he  said  gently. 

Katty  beamed.  "We  did  it  well,  Horace.  .  .  . 
As  Merton  says,  we  delivered  the  goods.  I'm  not 


356      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

wearing  shamrocks  this  summer,  but  I'm  certainly 
cultivating  a  little  bald-headed  eagle." 

"But  he  won't  play  about  with  your  little  British 
lion,  will  he  ?"  Horace  tried  to  enter  into  the  spirit 
of  this. 

"I  believe  they'd  act  like  two  baa-lambs  if  any- 
one showed  any  sense  anywhere.  .  .  .  There'd  be 
shamrock  wreaths  around  both  necks  in  no  time  if 
Heaven  sent  us  a  shepherd  with  two  ideas  in  his 
head!" 

"And  Serbia?  You  see  I've  the  ignorance  of  a 
year  to  make  up."  (He  said  nothing  of  his  inter- 
vening visit.  Perhaps  she  was  happily  ignorant  of 
those  emotional  weeks). 

"Serbia!  .  .  ."  Katt/s  face  clouded.  "We'll 
hear  great  things  from  there,  Meredith  Dyfed  says, 
after  a  little.  But  in  the  meantime,  as  in  the  past, 
as  ever  since  1915,  we've  all  failed  her.  We've  all 
stood  by  and  gaped  at  a  Crucifixion  .  .  .  not  the 
Calvary  of  an  individual,  but  of  a  nation.  I  mustn't 
let  myself  go  on  Serbia,  Horace,  even  to  you.  .  .  . 
But  now  that  proud  little  country  is  pulling  herself 
out  of  the  hole,  alone !" 

"And  your  delightful  Serbian  friends,  Cap- 
tain .  .  ."  Horace  sought  for  the  name  .  .  . 
"Boyovich?" 

"Dead." 

"I'm  really  sorry,"  Horace  exclaimed. 

"He  died  fighting  ...  a  good  death,  as  Crystal 
said."  She  looked  at  him  curiously.  Grimmer  had 
left  them  with  their  coffee. 


EXIT  MR.  DIMOCK  357 

"Why  .  .  ."  he  started  to  say,  "why  Crystal  in 
that  connection?"  but  paused. 

"Of  course  you  didn't  know,"  Katty  went  on, 
"that  Boyovich  adored  Crystal." 

Horace  hoped  she  did  not  realise  what  a  cold 
shock  her  words  had  given  him. 

"It  meant  a  great  deal  to  Crystal,  I  think,"  she 
continued,  "to  have  been  loved  by  so  fine  and  splen- 
did a  type  as  the  Guslar.  I  could  see  it  restored 
her  in  her  own  estimation  after  .  .  ." 

"After  such  a  cad  as  I,"  Horace  said  bitterly. 
"Go  on,  Katty,  put  it  any  way  you  like." 

"He  died  calling  her  name,  calling  on  her  and 
Serbia!  That  is  a  claim  to  immortality  for  my 
beautiful  sister,  isn't  it?" 

Horace  stirred  his  coffee  without  looking  at  it 
or  at  his  hostess. 

"You  think  I'm  a  skunk,  don't  you,  Katty?" 

Katty  was  lighting  a  cigarette.  "We  can't  all  be 
heroes,  or  poets  or  patriots,"  she  told  him. 

"I  see  you  know  about  Crystal!"  he  said,  after  a 
while. 

"She  didn't  tell  me  till  this  last  journey  to  Amer- 
ica," Katty  replied,  "and  then  she  didn't  tell  me 
very  much.  You  know,  for  a  talkative  family,  we 
say  very  little,  even  to  each  other." 

"I  know,  and  it's  fine  of  you,"  Horace  said  grate- 
fully. "I  dare  say  Crystal  would  never  have  told 
you  at  all  if  a  divorce  didn't  mean  a  certain  amount 
of  publicity.  Did  you  know  she  tried  once  before 
to  divorce  me,  same  grounds,  desertion,  and  I  spoiled 
it  at  the  last  moment  by  walking  in  on  it?" 


358      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"No !  but  why,  why,  Horace  Dimock,  did  you  do 
that?"  Katty  was  bewildered. 

"I  couldn't  bear  to  let  her  go  when  it  came  to  the 
point." 

"How  like  you,  Horace!"  Katty  smiled  almost 
tenderly  at  him. 

"Wasn't  it?  And  if  I  had  had  the  moral  cour- 
age, I'd  stop  this  last  divorce,  too.  But  I  simply 
can't  face  it.  And  she  would  never  understand, 
even  if  she  took  me  back,  that  my  various  infideli- 
ties, actual  and  emotional,  don't  mean  a  basic  in- 
fidelity to  her." 

"You'll  admit  it  would  take  rather  a  broad  gauge 
affection,"  Katty  remarked  dryly,  "to  stand  for  that, 
my  friend." 

"You'd  be  sufficiently  broad  gauge,  Katty!" 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  mused  Lady  Freke.  "  I  know 
that  men  like  you  .  .  .  constitutionally  disloyal,  do 
exist.  But  my  own  experience  has  never  proved  it. 
The  men  I've  known,  my  three  husbands,  my  two 
sons,  my  best  friends,  Norton,  Dyfed,  Allen  Pearce, 
Francis  Morrill  .  .  .  my  beloved  Boyovich  and 
Stefan,  all  have  been  faithful,  both  by  nature  and 
circumstances.  Of  course,  a  variation  in  species 
would  be  entertaining  ...  to  study.  But  I'm  afraid 
I'd  soon  revert,  in  sentiment,  to  the  monogamous 
type." 

"When  we  come  right  down  to  it,  Katty,"  Horace 
had  the  air  of  making  a  point,  "what's  the  differ- 
ence between  my  disloyalties  and  yours?" 

"You  mean  I've  had  three  husbands  and  you  only 


EXIT  MR.  DIMOCK  359 

two  wives  ?  You  score  there  .  .  .  but  I  had  'em  one 
at  a  time.  There  I  score!  Yet  perhaps  'tisn't  so 
much  a  matter  of  figures  as  of  feelings.  A  man  I 
knew  ...  a  delightful  person,  who'd  had  as  many 
affairs  as,  I  gather,  you  have,  said  to  me  once,  'I 
have  only  one  thing  to  be  proud  of  ...  I  have  never 
made  a  woman  shed  a  tear!'  And  I  can  honestly 
say,  I  never  made  Merton  White,  or  Tom  McCarthy, 
or  Blundell  Freke,  unhappy,  or  even  discontented, 
for  one  tiniest  second." 

"I  can't  say  anything  like  that."  Horace  was 
walking  up  and  down  now.  "Alas,  Katty,  you'd 
be  sorry  for  me  if  you  knew  what  ghosts  haunted 
me." 

"I  know  some  of  them,"  Lady  Freke  reminded 
him.  "Leonora,  Alpha,  Crystal.  You  can  hardly 
call  Daphne  a  ghost,  as  you  didn't  make  her  suffer 
.  .  .  you  only  enraged  her." 

"Yet  she  haunts  me,  too.  Perhaps  it's  more  my 
own  egotism,  in  her  case.  Where  is  Daphne  now  ?" 

"They're  moving  about,  still  in  the  United 
States." 

"They?"  queried  Horace.     "She  and  Crystal?" 

"O  my  friend,  didn't  you  know?  Wait  a  mo- 
ment." She  went  to  a  desk  and  brought  back  a 
letter  addressed  to  himself,  with  "Please  forward" 
on  it.  "I  knew  from  Peter  Norton  that  you  were 
en  route,  and  so  kept  this." 

Horace  opened  it  with  a  somewhat  dreary  heart 
...  it  was  so  obviously  wedding  cards.  And  there 
he  read : 


360      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

Mrs.   McClinton 

announces  the  marriage  of  her  niece, 
Daphne  Frances  O'Brien, 

to 

Captain  Stefan  Dakovich, 
of  the  Serbian  Army, 

in  San  Francisco, 
June  Tenth,  Nineteen  Hundred  and  Twenty 

"That  has  just  come,"  Katty  was  explaining  as 
Horace  read  and  re-read  the  announcement,  biting 
his  lip  unconsciously.  "Stefan  arrived  there  ten 
days  before  that,  from  Siberia.  He  had  been  a 
prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the  Bolsheviki,  and  nearly 
killed.  Daphne  had  not  heard  one  word  from  him 
till  they  met  in  the  streets  of  San  Francisco.  You 
knew  it  was  a  violent  love-at-first-sight  affair?  He 
discovered  her  in  Holland,  where  she  took  refuge 
from  .  .  ." 

"From  me,  I  know,"  Horace  offered  grimly. 

"And  when  she  found  him  again,  lame,  shabby, 
weary,  without  a  penny  in  the  world,  with  no  future 
so  far  as  she  knew,  she  was  for  marrying  him  at 
once,  that  very  day.  But  the  boy  insisted  on  wait- 
ing till  he  communicated  with  his  Chief  in  New 
York,  and  with  his  government  at  Belgrade.  I 
suspect  Merton  and  Crystal  pushed  things  along 
.  .  .  your  Serb  is  a  hero,  but  he's  no  hustler !  Any- 
way, he  got  his  captaincy,  all  his  back  pay,  two 
over-due  medals,  for  courage,  bless  him !  and  a  spe- 
cial mission  to  the  United  States  which  will  keep 


EXIT  MR.  DIMOCK  361 

them  there  till  autumn.     And  evidently  they  were 
married  ...  all  within  ten  days." 

"Hm,"  was  all  Mr.  Dimock  said. 

"Crystal  writes  that  it  was  the  prettiest  idyll  any 
human  being  could  imagine.  And  my  beloved  sister 
has  materialised  it  to  the  extent  of  settling  a  small 
annuity  upon  Daphne."  (Lady  Freke  did  not  say 
that  she  had  done  the  same.)  "And  it  all  satisfies 
every  instinct  for  the  right  outcome.  Daphne  will 
find  him,  and  his  life,  his  country,  his  ideas,  very, 
very  different.  But  that  very  difficulty  will  inspire 
her.  She's  as  capable  as  all  the  rest  of  us  put  to- 
gether. What  a  mother  she'll  make!  and  what 
gorgeous  children  they'll  have.  .  .  .  Did  you  know 
that  there  was  hardly  a  child  born  in  Siberia  in 
three  years?  That's  one  of  the  things  the  war  did 
there." 

Horace  walked  away  from  her  to  the  end  of  the 
room. 

When  he  came  back  he  stood  over  her,  leaning 
on  the  chair  next  her. 

"What  is  Crystal  going  to  do  ?"  he  asked  with  an 
effort. 

"Oh,  she'll  stay  with  Merton  till  he  gets  his  dis- 
charge .  .  .  and — incidentally,  my  friend — she  has 
still  her  own  divorce  to  put  through.  Then  she'll 
return  to  the  Pond  House.  There  will  be  great 
need  of  her  down  there.  And  she  plans  to  take 
on  Belgian,  Serbian  and  other  children  in  relays, 
so  to  speak.  Crystal  is  a  saint.  And  like  all  saints, 
she'll  lead  a  self-sacrificing  but  dull  life.  It's  the 


362      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

sinners  like  you  and  me,  Horace,  who  have  the 
good  times." 

"I've  made  a  pretty  failure  of  life,  haven't  I?" 
he  said,  half  quizzically,  half  mournfully. 

"I'm  afraid  Mr.  Dimock  loses  out!"  drawled 
Katty,  in  her  most  American  accent.  "But  you're 
still  a  fine  figure  of  a  man  .  .  .  only  you're  not 
lighted  from  within,  my  friend.  It's  an  outside 
brilliancy.  But  you'll  break  a  lot  of  hearts  yet, 
Horace!" 

"Hearts!  umph.  It's  not  hearts  I  want,  it's 
brains.  It's  companionship,  someone  to  enjoy  the 
world  with." 

"You  mean  someone  with  a  sense  of  humour  .  .  . 
a  hard-faced  widow,"  Lady  Freke  looked  wicked. 

"A  widow,  not  hard-faced,  but  with  a  sense  of 
humour  .  .  .  that  would  be  ideal."  Horace,  saying 
this,  looked  down  on  his  friend  with  very  handsome 
eyes  indeed. 

"Isn't  it  George  Harvey  says  no  one  but  a  widow 
must  tackle  any  man  over  forty  ?"  Lady  Freke  sug- 
gested. 

"Only  a  widow  is  tolerant,"  Horace  opined.  "No 
spinster,  of  any  age,  forgives  easily." 

"And  a  married  woman  is  always  risky,  eh?" 

"You  do  despise  me,  don't  you,  Katty?"  he  re- 
sented this. 

"I  don't  respect  you,"  admitted  his  friend  can- 
didly. "But  'tis  a  far  cry  from  that  to  despising. 
And  your  career,  except  where  it  hurt  Crystal,  is 
deeply  interesting  to  me." 

"It  would  be  even  more  interesting  if  I  told  you 


EXIT  MR.  DIMOCK  363 

the  half  of  it,"   observed   Mr.   Dimock  gloomily. 

"  'Tis  very  nice  in  you  to  tell  me  anything." 

"You're  the  sort  of  woman  a  man  can  tell  things. 
You've  tolerance  .  .  .  chief  of  all  virtues." 

"Well,  if  three  husbands,  nearly  four,  wouldn't 
make  me  tolerant,"  Katty  tossed  back,  "what 
would?" 

"Nearly  four?"  Horace  took  her  up  quickly. 

"Yes.  I  may  marry  again  .  .  .  sometime  .  .  . 
There  are  too  many  widows  in  the  world.  Don't 
laugh." 

"I  never  felt  less  like  it."  Horace  moved  away 
from  her  a  little. 

"My  dear  boy,  don't  look  as  though  you'd  lost  a 
friend!  I  shall  probably  be  at  home  first  Tues- 
days." 

"Please  .  .  .  Katty!  I've  lost  more  than  you 
realise."  Horace  sat  down  again,  rather  heavily. 

"Bless  my  soul!  was  the  man  going  to  propose 
to  me  ?" 

"I  believe  I  was."  Horace  put  it  whimsically. 
"At  least,  as  soon  as  I  was  free!" 

"Dear  old  Horace !  I  adore  proposals,  even  when 
they  don't  mean  much." 

"This  would  have  meant  the  best  that's  in  me," 
her  guest  said,  rather  nobly. 

"No,  your  sense  of  humour  would  have  stopped 
you.  The  Undeceased  Wife's  Oft  Widowed  Sis- 
ter!' It  wouldn't  have  done,  my  dear  boy." 

"Who  is  it?  Dyfed,  I  suppose,"  Horace  rather 
stated  it  than  asked. 


364      WHO  CHOOSES  MR.  DIMOCK? 

"Meredith  Dyfed?  Didn't  you  know  he  loved 
poor  Alicia?" 

"Absurd!  at  his  age!"  Horace  returned. 

"Horace,  you  are  inimitable.  He's  a  year  your 
junior." 

"So  poor  Dyfed  carries  a  scar?  Hm.  Who  is 
it,  then?" 

"Francis  Morrill,  and  he's  years  younger  than  I 
am,  so  I'd  never  be  a  widow  again." 

Horace  was  silent.  If  he'd  been  asked,  before 
this  conversation,  whom  he  considered  the  finest 
man  in  England,  he  would  have  said  Francis  Mor- 
rill. Generosity  made  him  express  something  of 
this  now. 

"Thank  you,  Horace.  I  have  known  only  two 
finer  spirits  in  my  whole  forty-seven  years  .  .  .  the 
Chief,  I  mean  Mr.  Redmond,  and  my  own  son." 

"Hazleby,"  Horace  nodded  affirmatively.  (A 
mother's  weakness  for  a  dead  child,  of  course.) 

"No,  Merton." 

Her  friend  was  genuinely  surprised. 

"One  can't  think  in  terms  of  the  individual  now," 
Katty  went  on,  with  none  of  her  usual  flippancy. 
"Francis,  who'd  like  to  marry  me  next  week,  and 
whom  I  could,  I  think,  make  quite  happy  .  .  .  Fran- 
cis stands  to  me  for  something  more  than  that. 
He  stands  for  the  genuine  aristocrat  of  the  world, 
good  sport,  far-seeing  statesman,  England  at  her 
very  finest.  But  Merton,  whom  I  have  never  made 
quite  happy — (no  child  likes  to  have  a  light-minded 
mother!)  Merton,  whom  Daphne  refused  to  make 
happy ;  whom  now  one  sees  always  lonely  .  .  .  Merton 


EXIT  MR.  DIMOCK  365 

who  has  given  an  arm  to  his  country,  and  must  go 
maimed  for  life  .  .  .  it  is  in  Merton  I  see  the  hope 
of  the  future." 

"You  mean  young  America?"  Horace  interrupted 
her. 

"Yes.  I  didn't  know  my  own  country  before 
this  war.  It's  only  now  I  know  my  own  son.  But 
at  last  I  see  them  both.  And  the  world  will  be 
saved  through  them  .  .  .  through  youth  and  the 
ideal  at  the  heart  of  youth.  A  practical  ideal  at  the 
heart  of  young  America. 

"You  make  me  feel  elderly  and  useless,"  Horace 
said. 

"No,  only  middle-aged,"  Katty  nodded  at  him, 
and  at  her  own  reflection  in  the  mirror.  "And  no 
candle  burns  inside  you,  Horace.  You  expect  all 
the  illumination  to  be  offered  outside  on  your  altar." 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door. 

"I  hear  Meredith  Dyfed,"  she  said.  "He  brings 
me  the  latest  news  every  night.  Will  you  see  him?" 

"No,  Katty.  It's  good-bye  ...  for  a  long  time." 

And  Mr.  Dimock  betook  himself,  unlighted,  into 
the  outer  darkness  of  the  London  night. 


THE  END 


JL 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000127456     2 


